


Both Sides of the Gun

by Spazzlings



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types, Resident Evil 6 - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Chris Feels, Long Fic is REALLY Long, Mind Control, Multi, Transformation, Wesker Returns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 119,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spazzlings/pseuds/Spazzlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piers survives the collapse of the underwater base and returns, but isn’t greeted with the trust he expected. Now Chris has been assigned as his handler, and together they have to find out why a high security BSAA database has become a target. But when Chris is captured by an unlikely enemy, will Piers be able to save him when there is no one left to vouch for him in the BSAA?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The steak was slightly cold and definitely not cooked to any definition of the health code that Chris knew of, but he knew what he was getting into when he ordered it. Piers had warned him, after all – decent was hardly delicious. Still, he ate. It was a little harder to swallow than he would've liked to admit, whether it be because of the lack-luster taste or the bug he figured must be making his throat so tight, although he didn't remember having any trouble with it this morning.

The door to the dim bar opened, filtering in a halo of bright light as a figure appeared in the doorway. From the bulkiness of the silhouette, he knew the shadow was one of his. Confident footfalls trailed their way up to Chris' table and plunked down solidly to stand before him.

"Captain," the B.S.A.A. soldier said, "We've received new orders."

Chris looked up at him from over his meal. The man wasn't so much a man as he was the beginnings of one – his face still round with youth. He looked familiar, like him, but so did all the young recruits these days. The soldier was wearing a faded green scarf tucked into the neck of his uniform. The scarf of a Second-in-Command, Chris thought, this must be Piers' replacement. The thought made his food taste even more foreign.

"Right. Let's not keep them waiting, then," he said. As he stood, the younger man already began the process of walking back to the door, which had still not closed. His other men were holding those doors open, illuminating the bar for what it really was. Grey, dusty – a piece of his past to leave behind.

He threw a few bills onto the table beside his plate and made sure to leave a generous tip for the curvy waitress who kept shooting him filthy looks. She probably spat in his food given the venom in those glares, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what he had done to make his way onto her spit list. He threw another two dollars down on top of the already generous tip, just to be safe.

When he looked up, his new Second was looking back at him from the doorway. His stance was not impatient – the soldier was still too new to feel comfortable being impatient with him – but he definitely seemed excited to be out onto the field in his new position. Chris could sympathize, he had had that feeling once, too.

He allowed his fingers to trail idly along the rough wood of the table before taking his first few steps away from it. Away from the bar and from the past, and into the future he had promised to maintain and protect. Each step away made him feel more solid, more in control as he made amends with what he was leaving behind. Seeing the eager faces of his new team – young men and women ready to prove themselves to him and to humanity – confirmed in him what Piers had known all along. The B.S.A.A. needed him for whatever reason he couldn't fathom. His very presence seemed to make a difference. If that was all they needed, he'd make sure his presence was as strong as he could bare to make it be.

Halfway to the door, his pocket rumbled agitatedly. He paused and pulled out his phone. The screen displayed 'Unidentified Number' in large, blocky text. Chris studied those two words for a moment before answering the phone.

"Chris Redfield, B.S.A.A."

There was a breathy pause, and then, "You stayed?"

It sounded more like a relieved observation than a question, and that coupled with the voice made his blood run colder than his steak he had been served.

"Who is this?" Chris said. He could feel his blood thumping thickly in his neck, pulsing through his veins painfully. Anger made his blood boil – if this was some sort of prank or cruel trick...

"Captain, I... It's me. Piers."

Chris nearly snarled, but bit his cheek before the savage sound could escape his lips in front of his new recruits. They needed a composed leader, not an easily provoked one. He couldn't be what he had been anymore.

He took two deep breathes through his nose before speaking. "Piers Nivans died two weeks ago. He died bravely, so if you're trying to strip even an ounce of honor away from his name with this sick joke, so help me—"

"Ask me anything, Captain. I swear it's me."

"I'm not playing this game with you. He was killed by God knows how much pressure, among other things. He's dead, you're not him."

"Captain Redfield?" Came a hesitant call from the doorway. His Second-in-Command looked concerned. Chris placed his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone as he spoke to him.

"Take the men to the vehicle and let HQ know we're mounting up. I'll wrap this up and be there shortly."

The sudden emergence of an order put his team at ease. Eager to obey, they left the bar and closed the door behind them, taking the light from outside with them. The bar was suddenly several shades darker than he ever could remember it being.

"You have a new team."

"That's none of your concern," Chris said, "I am. What're you playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything. Please, just hear me out. I woke up on a fisherman's boat. They didn't speak English, so I don't know how or when they found me. They took me with them back to shore and this really nice ol—gentlemen let me borrow his phone," Piers said quickly, then added under his breath so that the owner of the phone wouldn't hear, "Thank God everything looks normal now, they probably would've just thrown me back overboard if I had looked the way I did, you know… before."

And that made Chris' boiling blood creep to a standstill. Nowhere in his reports had he mentioned Piers' infection. Being the only one to have witnessed it, Chris didn't want that decision, no matter how noble, to slander his name or reputation. The higher-ups tended to get caught up on minute details like that. Keeping that information a secret was the difference between Piers' getting buried with full honors and a Purple Heart, and Piers never having existed in the B.S.A.A. at all. After everything, Chris' couldn't bear to think of that happening on top of everything else. A person who devoted his all and died for his country should in turn be honored by his country.

So no one knew. Not even Jill.

Chris swallowed. "What did you say?"

"I said these fishermen found me and brought me to shore—"

Chris cut him off. "—What did you give me when you died?"

"Uh, Captain?"

"If you want to prove that you're who you claim you are, then answer me. What did you give me?"

"My patch," the other man said after a short, stunned pause, "From my sleeve."

"Don't hang up the phone," Chris ordered as he pulled back to look at the screen of his own. The B.S.A.A. kept assigning him new phones with newer and fancier functions, each one more fragile than the last. Whenever budget cuts came up in meetings, Chris was always the first one to mention the frivolous contraptions because, honestly, what soldier has time to play Angry Pigeons, or whatever it was called, while shooting a Licker? No one alive, that much he was certain of. But after this moment, Chris swore he would never complain about his inability to keep one in one piece for longer than one mission ever again.

He put the phone on speaker and pressed the small icon on the screen that allowed agents to back trace their calls. A program popped up and Chris watched as the loading bar slowly tracked his formerly dead partner down.

Then the program pinged, and as his partner's location appeared on the screen, Chris took his first breath in a world where Piers Nivans was not dead.

"I have your location," Chris said, "Stay where you are, I'm coming for you."


	2. Men of Action

It took a while for the B.S.A.A. to finally catch up with Piers, but when Chris Redfield said he was coming for him, he definitely meant it. When three helicopters came roaring into the skyline on the shore of China, Piers felt something in him still. The B.S.A.A. had come for him ‒ they were willing to send so many men to come and just pick him up. The corners of his lips pulled into a stunned smile as Piers' only family came to a hovering halt on that Chinese beach.

The wings of the copters blew sand everywhere, and the young man had to shield his eyes with the sleeve that hadn't been torn off. As the copter blades slowed down to large, heavy woofs, he looked up to see the door of the middle helicopter opening.

When Chris first stepped out, he looked around with squinty eyes as he tried to see through the sudden exposure to sunlight. When his eyes finally fell upon Piers, the calm and detached expression he always wore on missions did not fade. The lack of a smile, of anything, made Piers hesitate. He unconsciously reached for his right hand, afraid that it had somehow spontaneously mutated during his shock at seeing so many men come for him.

'Did they send those men,' Piers wondered, 'To ensure my safe return, or to ensure the safety of China?'

But when his fingers touched his own skin, all he felt was the normal texture of his human arm. No mutations. He had not gotten the chance to look in a mirror during his two weeks at sea with those men, but he figured that if they had not thrown him immediately overboard, he must not look too bad.

But seeing the slight frown that twitched across his captain's face made him think otherwise.

Before he could even call out to the other man, Chris was purposefully stomping his way across the sand between them. No gun, Piers noted, but he couldn't help but feel anxious as Chris Redfield stopped just in front of him and appraised him with hard eyes. He suddenly felt very small beneath that gaze.

Piers had only prayed a handful of times in his life. He had prayed once for his mom to get better, which hadn't happen. He had prayed again to be accepted into the B.S.A.A., which had. He had prayed to find his captain safe when the guilt-ridden amnesiac had suddenly disappeared, and he had prayed that when he was infected, he would be able to hold on to his sense of self just long enough to ensure his captain made it to safety. While he wasn't sure what he believed in, he did believe that three out of four wasn't too bad.

So now he prayed that he passed whatever test Chris Redfield was silently putting him through, because if he wasn't Piers Nivans and if he's wasn't B.S.A.A. through and through, he didn't know who he was. Just as he was about to open his mouth, to say anything to break the heavy burden of silence, Chris reached up and grasped him by each shoulder. He could feel the scratchy texture of the other man's glove on his bare right shoulder, rasping against his now normal skin. Then that hand squeezed a little harder before it moved firmly to the back of his neck. The weight of his hand was heavy and reassuring as he shook him just a little bit to get his attention.

And then that hand squeezed, despite the infectious and mutated skin he knew Chris could feel there. His captain gently shook him to grab his attention, and so that he had to look at the other man's eye as he said, "We're both getting out of here, alright?"

"Come on," Chris said now, and squeezed his neck reassuringly as he finally smiled. "Let's get you back to the B.S.A.A. ‒ to where you belong."

And finally, Piers let out a shaky breath and smiled as Chris took him by his bare elbow and led him back to the men who were waiting by the standard B.S.A.A. helicopters. As he approached, the men hollered at him victoriously, happy to see the return of one of their own. The triumph over death made all the men boisterous and excited, and soldiers that Piers had never even seen before clapped him on the back with kind words of praise and awe.

He didn't feel deserving, and it wasn't what he expected. Fear, maybe. Disgust. But these men treated him like a hero as he stepped wearily onto the helicopter, and he had to admit ‒ it felt nice. Once the other men piled in, Chris slid the copter door shut with a hearty thunk and leaned back into his seat across from Piers. When he caught his gaze, he gave him a reassuring smile and said, "Let's go home."

"Yes, sir," Piers said, and wondered if this was how Chris felt whenever the recruits said these things to him. Like a hero.

The trip back had been a long one. The helicopter took them to an airport, which then got them on a plane headed back to B.S.A.A. headquarters. Chris had brought a replacement uniform for him, which he gladly changed into at the first opportunity to do so. Being rid of the clothes he had almost became a monster in was more than liberating, it was damn near exhilarating. He couldn't get the smelly, ruined clothing off fast enough. He threw the bloody, tattered remains of his old uniform in the trash and quickly splashed his face with water. When he straightened before the mirror and dried his face, it was to the greeting an unfamiliar reflection.

Chris hadn't given him a clue as to what he would find. Based off the man's stern and motionless expression, Piers' would never have guessed at what he ended up seeing in the mirror. But the captain was used to everything and anything. Of course he didn't say, "Hey Piers, glad you're alive. Don't know if you noticed, but you've got one hell of a wicked awesome scar to tell the ladies about now, kid."

But that was exactly what he had, a wicked awesome scar trailing from just above his left eyebrow, down through the middle of the bridge of his nose, and just under his right eye. He knew what the dark brown scar was from; he could remember the shearing pain of it. There had been no normal cause for the wound, nothing had actually cut into his face like that. It was the mutation pulling his skin apart from the inside.

He let his fingers ‒ hyper sensitive from their rebirth ‒ trail across the vivid and angry looking scar. Which brought his attention to his right eye. He could remember not being able to see out of it, towards the end. If he weren't so concerned with becoming infected, changing into a monster, and trying to control the urge to kill the man he was trying to save, he would have been terrified of the feeling of slowly losing his eyesight. He was just glad that the only damage that had been left behind was that the iris had permanently turned an eerie shade of blue on that side. He could see still see ‒ better than ever, in fact ‒ but the color was disconcerting, and he wondered if any of the other men even thought to question it.

But that was the extent of it. The scar and the change in iris color. He should be grateful for that, if nothing else, he thought as he watched himself ball his human hands into fists and then unclench. He could've washed ashore as a monster. His arm could still be a claw. Electricity could still sing to him in that disconcerting and beautiful way, leaping to his fingers eagerly at his call ‒ ready to obey him like the recruits that followed the captain like puppies…

A knock on the bathroom door made him jerk, and a feeling guilt washed over him for thinking those thoughts. The plane was classy, classier than any flight he had ever been on before. The B.S.A.A. had booked a large suite-like area on the second floor of the plane for them. Most of the men were in the other room watching TV and playing cards, but Chris had remained in the room attached to the bathroom as he cleaned his guns.

It must have been Chris knocking now, he rationalized as he opened the door. When he did, it was to see his Captain standing there. He should've known from the fact that Chris had been cleaning his guns that he felt guilty about something ‒ it was a sign as clear as someone twitching when they had a good hand or a bad bluff in poker.

The door to their half of the suite was closed, and Chris looked less confident than he had back on that beach appraising him.

"Captain?"

"I wanted to wait to tell you… Give you time to readjust and settle in, but I don't feel comfortable waiting when we don't know what sort of condition the virus has put you in," he said. Piers stiffened. He knew it would get to this eventually. Of course they wouldn't just let an infected man walk free like nothing had happened. He knew before he even called Chris that there would be consequences for his actions, and he had made his peace with that fact. He'd submit to whatever they needed him to do if it meant proving that he was still the man he was before what happened in that underwater facility.

"It's okay, I understand. The B.S.A.A. can run whatever tests they've got planned, I'll let them do anything they need to do to clear me for duty," he said, "Just… Don't tell me I can't come back."

"What? No, that's not ‒ It's not that simple. Piers, I… In my report, when I told them you saved my life, I didn't tell them in what condition you were in when you did it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that as of right now, the only people who know that you're infected are standing in this room."

Piers felt a heavy tension in his shoulders he hadn't felt since his captain finally let go of his vendetta against Ada Wong and remembered that the B.S.A.A. and the world came first. He took a step forward as he growled, "You withheld information from the B.S.A.A.?"

"I didn't think you were alive! All I knew was that we had to bury you and if I had told them what really happened, they would have pretended like you were never there at all. I couldn't let that happen, you deserved more than that."

That calmed him down. He didn't agree with his captain; he didn't think he was more important than the integrity of the B.S.A.A., but he couldn't say he wouldn't have done the same if their roles had been reversed.

So he just nodded his head with a grimace.

"Okay," he said, "So what do we do now?"

Chris gave him another one of the guilty looks he could still remember so vividly from across the table at that bar he found him in several months ago.

"We have to find out to what extent you're infected, and to do that‒"

"‒We have to tell the B.S.A.A., yeah," Piers said.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's the best option. For the B.S.A.A. and for me. If it comes back or if I can't control it, I want to be surrounded by the people who can handle it. People I trust. It's better than me losing it on the street or something."

There was a pause, and Piers could tell his captain was at a loss for what to say. Chris was never a man who could explain or even express his thoughts and feelings well. He was a man of action, and he made up for his mistakes not with words, but with action. Even in front of Jake Muller he never said, "I killed your father because he was a crazy bastard that intended to destroy the world" or "Your father was the one responsible for the deaths and suffering of countless people, including the men and women he trained". No, he did what he felt he had to in order to make amends with a boy who had lost his father at Chris' hands. He stayed still.

And for Piers, he stayed with the B.S.A.A.

"We'll tell them together," Chris said, his determined mask back. "I'll be there every step of the way."

"Thanks, Captain."


	3. 2 Months Later

Two Months Later

Gun shots echoed like banshee screams in the large room. The two agents were in what used to be the lobby of a fancy hotel; fancy to the point that it was at least one star above Chris' budget on a good day, and he was paid quite well considering. The staircase was made up of intricate wood carvings of angels and fat cherubs, all leading to the grand upper floor that overlooked the entire lobby. The ceiling was painted over a mirrored coating, creating an eerie effect as the flickering, broken lights reflected off of the colors and swirling brushstrokes ominously. The telling crunch of claws sinking into the glass and marble beneath the mirrors made Chris turn his aim from the horde of zombies steadily advancing towards them to the lizard-like Strelats crawling towards their position.

"Piers, B.O.W.s overhead," Chris shouted over barks of gunfire as he started to unload his machine gun ammo into the creatures while they were still too far away to send their noxious spikes his way. Shards of mirrors fell with a surreal tinkling sound as jagged, infected bodies were dislodged from the high ceiling. Their impact with the floor left the marble splintered and broken.

Piers continued to spray a mist of covering fire into the horde ahead as Chris switched to a gun with a better scope and began to pick off the recovering B.O.W.s one by one.

"Captain, we can't stay here. The extraction point is through the window in the upstairs ballroom. We need to make our way there before we run out of time," Piers said between bursts of chattering fire.

With one last shot between the eye, the older man put down the remaining B.O.W. The carcasses of the three creatures laid there twitching and dissolving into poisonous goo as the two men quickly ran through a thin patch in the horde and past the corpses. Chris covered the front with quick, little bursts of controlled gunfire as Piers continued to unload a heavy spray of cover fire behind them, his back to Chris as they moved.

"Stairs," Chris said to Piers as they reached the main staircase. The younger man slowly took the stairs one at a time as he continued his trek backwards, all the while keeping an eye on the marching line of dead victims ambling their way towards them. Every time one picked up their pace even just a hair, the marksman felled it with a quick burst of fire through the face.

As the infected agent covered their retreat, Chris made it to the top of the stairs and grabbed the door handle to the ballroom.

"Piers," he said, and braced himself against the door as he waited for Piers to turn his attention to their new objective.

"On it," the man said as he sent one last zombie toppling down the staircase, taking out a few others along the way. He turned his aim to the doorway, ready to open fire as Chris quickly kicked it open with a splintering shove of his boot and went inside.

"Clear," he said, and Piers quickly followed. The young gunman quickly closed the doors behind him as Chris grabbed a chair to pin them in place. A few moments later, several hands began to beat a desperate, unsynchronized rhythm against the door, rocking it uselessly with their needy hands.

"We have to get through the large window on the far side. It overlooks the courtyard where the extraction point is," Piers said as he pulled up his phone to confirm their location.

"How come I get the feeling that this is the unconventional method of reaching the extraction point?"

"Because this is the unconventional method of reaching the extraction point," Piers said, "Otherwise known as the awesome way." He quickly put his phone back into his pocket, frowning when a little symbol appeared saying his phone was about to die for the fifth time that day. Static lingered at his fingertips when he pulled away.

"My knees are getting too old for this," Chris grumbled as he scanned the dark room with the flashlight attached to his gun.

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Captain. I've only heard your knees crack once during this whole mission."

"I think that's more a testament to your bad hearing than a compliment to my age," he said, "Come on, let's get this over with."

Their footsteps echoed painfully as they stepped onto the beautifully ornate dance floor, and both men felt their insides twisting at their inability to mask the sound of their progress. Ahead of them was a giant window, it's intricate panes overlooking the courtyard just as the howling of B.S.A.A. chopper blades landing sounded in the large room. The men watched as the helicopter landed in the courtyard, ready to take them out of there.

The sight of another B.S.A.A. team made them speed up their gate a bit, eager to be out the window and to their destination. With one last look around their surroundings, Chris motioned for Piers to run ahead to the window. As the younger man jogged forward, Chris turned his back to the other man and covered their retreat.

Just as Piers was reaching up to investigate the chain and padlock barring the large window leading out to the small terrace, the ceiling began to crackle in the middle of the ballroom as something crashed into it from the other side. Chris quickly aimed the flashlight of his gun at the ceiling, watching as hairline cracks shattered the wings of painted cherubs and sent peels of painted ceiling crashing down. Another large crash caused even more of the ceiling to come crumbling down upon the middle of the dance floor.

"Piers," Chris said as the ceiling shook again with another rumbling thump. "Get that window open and lets go."

Another slam into the ceiling above left them stumbling slightly below. The crack then spread from the epicenter of the hits out towards the sides of the room, shooting through the frame of the window and splintering the panes with the force of it. With a quick leap, Piers was able to knock both himself and Chris out of the way just in time to avoid a large piece of ceiling as it fell down upon the spot they had been standing in. The two men landed heavily a few feet away and looked back to see large, jagged pieces of marble and plaster barricading the way.

"Now what?" Piers asked.

"We‒"

The sound of the ceiling finally collapsing ripped the sound of Chris' response from the air. The agents quickly covered their heads as plaster and stone from the ceiling fell in crumbles around them. In the roar of the collapse, Chris was sure he heard Piers yelp from somewhere beside him, but couldn't move well enough with all the dust and debris still falling to tell.

"Piers?!"

When the last of the ceiling finally came to a halt on the floor, the older man slowly lifted his hands away from his head minutely enough to look around without giving himself away. An action that saved his life as he spotted the huge B.O.W. that had caused the commotion to start with.

It was akin to a Strelat like the ones they had faced outside ‒ dangerous lizard-like creatures with wickedly pointed spikes along their spines ‒ but unlike them, the one that had landed mere feet away from them was at least three times their average size. Its scaly hide was black in color as compared to the muddy green color of the other Strelats, and in contrast to their instinctive fight or flight nature, Chris could see an unsettling form of intelligence in this one's orange eyes.

It didn't shriek like the others would have, nor did it immediately start crawling towards the ceiling as the others were prone to doing out of comfort. This Strelat simply sat there and watched them with an eerie sort of detachment, waiting for them to move. Chris could see the calm heaves of its rib-cage moving beneath the skin of its sides, and he could hear the clicking of the spikes lining its spine as it moved.

Without moving enough to provoke it, the older man quickly turned his attention to Piers who was trying to keep calm beneath the rubble pinning his right shoulder to the ground. The younger man's gaze found his, eyes wild. Chris realized that Piers couldn't tell what had fallen through due to the rubble blocking his vision. All he knew was that they were not alone in that ballroom, and that he was pinned to the floor. Chris shook his head very slowly as he saw Piers begin to struggle, boats squealing against the floor as they flailed for purchase against anything that would help. At the end of the piece of rubble pinning the young man, the B.S.A.A. captain could see his hand clenching and unclenching wildly. Piers was panicking.

And all the movement was attracting undesired attention. The large Strelat curiously cocked its head as it watched Piers struggle, and then took one massively long step towards them. The footfall reverberated in the floor, making Piers still, but Chris could still hear the other man's haggard breathing.

With two deep breaths, Chris twisted fluidly from his back to a crouching position, and during the twist that faced him in the giant lizard's direction, he calmly pulled a grenade from the back of his belt, removed the pin, and threw it to a clattering halt at the monster's feet. As the small explosive went off, Chris was already across the floor to where Piers was pinned and began pushing the debris off the smaller man. As soon as the weight was removed, the sniper rolled out from under the ruble and onto his feet with a disoriented wobble.

Time slowed as the Strelat sang a bloodthristy cry into the air. Chris was already running towards the other gunman when he noticed the way Piers was cradling his abused right arm, the limb shaking like a leaf in his grasp. He grabbed the man by his good wrist and quickly yanked him along as he dodged his way through debris to the upper floor that ringed the dance floor.

"Get your head out of your ass and move, Piers!" Chris shouted.

The captain didn't have to say anything else as he let go of the man's wrist. Just like that, the gunman he knew returned ‒ rifle out ‒ and released a hail of cover fire into the Strelat that had scrambled up the stairs behind them. That left the monster reeling, particularly when a well-fired shot found a new home in the creature's left eye. It squealed in pain as it tumbled with flailing limbs down the stairs, destroying quite a few steps in the process. The agents kept running, aiming to round back towards the upper part of the window by circling through the entirety of the ring-like upper balcony.

Poisonous needles began to patter into the wall behind them as they ran, the creature firing the noxious darts out of its obscenely large gullet from below. But on the two men ran, not even bothering to slow to return fire.

Just as they were finally rounding back towards the window, the creature below ceased its firing and performed a long, twirling arc on the floor. It's tail spun out from the arc and hit one of the main beams supporting the floor just under the spot that was attached to the window. The second floor balcony the agent were on shook as that beam collapsed, and with it, the part of the floor it had been attached to.

The part of the floor Chris had been running on.

Piers, just a few steps behind, came to a halt with outstretched fingers just as Chris lost his footing and began to slide down with the now heavily slanted floor. Below the broken slab of flooring, the Strelat prowled eagerly. It snapped its teeth in anticipation as Chris pulled out his knife and quickly drilled it into the floor before he could fall the rest of the way off the now vertical platform and into the creature's awaiting jaws.

The Strelat howled in impatience and leapt up onto the bit of railing hanging mere feet above it. The wooden railing splintered beneath its weight, and the entire floor shook as it threatened to fall to the ground completely.

"Piers, for God's sake, shoot it!" Chris shouted as the B.O.W. opened its mouth to fire another hail of darts into the man hanging helplessly before it. Piers took a deep breath as he made sure to aim the rifle perfectly at the foggy, pustule like sac that hung at the back of the B.O.W.'s throat, but before he could even fire at the organ, the entire complex shuddered.

The walls flexed inwards, than outwards with a sigh before crumbling into a mess of white shards that slowly advanced towards them. Those shards stripped away the carpeting, the intricate walls, the beautiful painting, the blood ‒ and in their place, Piers saw nothing but the plain white floor of the B.S.A.A. holographic testing chamber. He watched as the B.O.W. exploded into a thousand white digital splinters and Chris slid lamely down the false floor he had been hanging on to land softly on the padded floor below.

Piers removed the digital headset that had been covering his eyes, marveling that the gun he had been looking at in his own hands mere seconds ago was replaced with air in reality. He quickly put the training device down on the ground and pulled at the collar of his uniform to inspect where the rubble had "damaged" his right arm.

There was no discoloration to speak of, the arm looked as it always did since he awoke that day in the fishermen's boat. Normal. Human. Not a claw like he feared it would be. He felt his heart stabilize in his chest, calm now that he knew the trauma he received in the digital world had not affected him here.

But thinking of his fear made him remember his reaction to the trauma in the first place ‒ panic. If Chris had not been there, he would have failed that simulation. And now the fear of proving those B.S.A.A. scientists right was replaced with the fear that the simulation had ended early because they had seen all they needed to see. His jury and executioners had made their decision, and there was nothing he could do about it.

But he would not give them the satisfaction of losing it now. If they had decided they had seen enough, then fine. He'd enjoy his last few free moments while he could. He walked over to the collapsed floor and slid down it to his captain, landing beside him with a oomph. Chris had not moved since sliding down himself, and at the sudden appearance of the infected man beside him he let slip a masked smile of confidence.

"Could've been worse," he said, "But I think we had it under control."

"I was going to shoot it."

"I know," Chris said and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, it took Jill a while to get back into the swing of things, too. They were patient with her and they'll be patient with you. I'm sure the brass have a good reason for ending the training exercise early."

Despite his worried frown, Piers nodded in response. He trusted his captain's words, particularly now. He had to. If Chris was wrong, it felt like the world might shatter beneath him. Life as a test subject ‒ the mere thought of it made his insides squirm mournfully. He shuddered.

The young man tried to ignore the sympathetic look his captain shot him then, and looked up as the doors on the far side of the huge test chamber opened. The dark uniforms of the men and women advancing towards them stood out starkly against the bright white walls and floors of the training facility. At the head of the small group of guards was a middle aged, sharp looking woman. Her hawkish features and pale skin matched the taut bun of her graying hair. Her eerily pale eyes locked on them as she made her way across the facility to where they sat, her guards at attention behind her.

Neither man bothered to stand as they caught their breath. One too weary and the other too nervous to manage it. The new director, replacement for former Director Clive O'Brian, didn't bother address the small act of insubordination as she came to a stop a few feet from them.

"Gentlemen," Director Dian Page said, "A situation has arisen that has caused us to cut your exercise short, as you no doubt noticed."

Piers felt the suffocating fear that was oppressing his heart vanish. This wasn't about his performance in the ballroom.

"What's the situation?" Chris asked.

"Jill Valentine has just reported that the high security B.S.A.A. stronghold in Washington, DC has just been breached. It is unknown as of this moment what sort of act of terrorism is at hand, but I need the best of the B.S.A.A. to respond to it… And despite the circumstances, you two are some of the best." The director then pulled a handgun from the holster around her waist and handed it barrel first to Piers. "We have decided in lieu of your honorable history with the B.S.A.A. that we will accept the terms Captain Redfield proposed in our meeting this morning. You are officially returned to active duty, Agent Nivans, under the condition that you respond solely and indefinitely to Captain Redfield's command. You will become a two-person unit separate from the regular B.S.A.A. teams."

Piers reached up for the gun ‒ the first real gun he had held in the weeks since his voluntary incarceration with the B.S.A.A. ‒ and tried not to gape. "I‒ Thank you, Madam Director."

She turned her hard gaze from Piers to Chris.

"You are hereby held responsible for this man, Captain Redfield, as you were for Agent Jill Valentine after her return from Africa. Your reports are to be made daily unless on a mission, and it is you who will be held reliable should your judgment be wrong about this man. We are trusting your word as one of the co-founders of the B.S.A.A. I pray you are not wrong."

"I'm not."

She left her gaze to sear into Chris for a moment, but the thirty-nine-year-old simply stared at the same way he had stared down countless B.O.W.s. Finally her gaze relented and she straightened herself before them.

"No use wasting any more time, then. Don't bother removing your gear. Captain Redfield, make sure Agent Nivans has whatever weaponry you feel comfortable giving him, then meet Agent Valentine at the Chopper in Hanger Bay B. She'll debrief you on the way."

As the director turned to leave, Chris stopped her.

"Madam Director, when you say the stronghold in DC… are you insinuating‒?"

"‒Yes, Captain Redfield. I am."

Then the director was walking away again, never once looking back. Faster than Piers had anticipated, Captain Redfield was suddenly on his feet. He had a uneasy and knowing light in his eyes that Piers hadn't seen since the day he had watched the man uselessly slam his fists against the windows of the escape pod he had forced him in. Chris knew something that he didn't. Something important.

When the older man extended his hand out to him, Piers took it.

"Captain, what's going on?" He asked as he was pulled to his feet.

"There's a mole in the B.S.A.A."


	4. Titanic's Fall

The heavy beating of the chopper blades thrummed through Chris' heart as they hovered over the helipad to the B.S.A.A.'s Washington, DC, base. The evening sky was fading into a rusty red as the sun bled its way down past the horizon, outlining the Washington Monument in a halo of fire. Chris watched it for a long moment as he leaned against the open helicopter door, only blinking when Piers firmly shook him by one shoulder.

"Time to go, Captain," he said as he stepped out of the helicopter. Jill was already out of the chopper's pilot seat on the landing pad besides Piers. She was a brunette again, but by the way her roots were slowly beginning to bleed out, the older man knew that she had dyed it. Her blue eyes stopped and lingered on him when she felt him looking at her, but neither mentioned it. Jill just redirected her attention back to Piers as she pulled out a small device from her pack.

As Chris walked up next to her, she turned it on. Out from the small box-like device sprung a hologram with a detailed map of each floor of the complex. With the slightest touch of her fingers, Jill skillfully manipulated the map to show exactly what she wanted. Hallways grew and shrank at her fingers' beck and call.

"We've already contacted the President. He's assigned us a group from the Secret Service to directly respond to the threat. They're currently holed up outside the building and waiting for the security system's lockdown to time out, which should be any minute now," Jill said as she highlighted the infiltration team's intended path. "They are going to handle the infection and make sure that whatever happened in the building dies in the building."

"So we're not addressing the infection with them? What's our objective?" Piers asked.

"We'll be entering from the roof," she said as she pointed it out in the maps and expanded the helipad. "This way we're closer to our objective ‒ the fifth floor."

"What's on the fifth floor?"

"The entire collective intelligence gathered by the B.S.A.A., the US Government's National Security sects, and various other organizations," Chris said.

"Everything…" Piers said, looking between them. "All of our information… Why the hell is all of our information in one place?"

"Think of it like a backup hard drive. We have this information in various different bases and organizations, but all of it is collectively stored in one place as well."

"Still, all in one place?"

"It isn't like it isn't well defended, Agent Nivans," Jill said as she looked at him with an unamused face. "As of right now we know that the fifth floor has not been accessed, nor has its air quality or any of the information suffered during the span of the outbreak."

"How do you know that?" Piers asked from where he knelt on the helipad ground. He reached out for the hologram and gently touched the fifth floor. The security readings then popped up along the side: Outbreak Code 5, infectious toxin detected on this floor. Do not enter building until all air has been cleared for safe inhalation. Current ETA is 5 minutes and counting. Caution, Outbreak Code 5‒ "That hardly looks unaffected to me."

"That's not the fifth floor," Chris said as he stepped up beside Piers and brushed the selected floor away. He then pulled up the full map again and touched both the fifth and fourth floors. With just the spreading of his fingers, he zoomed in on the space between these two floors and pointed to a door in-between the two levels of the elevator shaft. "That is the fifth floor."

"No soul in this building knows that it even exists. Nobody assigned to this building has ever been in it. Only a small handful of people in all of the B.S.A.A. have even been in it, including Former Director O'Brian and I.T. Director John Sikes," Jill said as she turned off the device. "The floor is built with an intricate security system. The walls are practically camera lenses ‒ they see everything. The floor's camera feed is then monitored by a special team of security personnel who do not know where the facility is, all they know is to press the red button if anything is wrong."

"And they are monitored and protected by ISAAC and ICARUS from within, too," Chris said.

"Who?"

"ISAAC ‒ Intelligence Security Autonomous Artificial Collective, our security agent assigned to the protection of the data, and ICARUS ‒ Interagency Cooperative Assimilation Regent and Unit Security, responsible for filtering and maintaining all the information that comes in. They're artificially intelligent systems created to protect the information housed on that floor," Jill explained.

"So let me get this straight, all of our collective intelligence on every bioterrorism attack is stored all on one floor, and it's guarded by robots. You expect me to believe that?"

"You're the equivalent of a human light bulb, right? It shouldn't be so hard to understand," Jill said. Piers gaped at her.

"Jill, please," Chris warned, then turned to Piers, "You need to understand, this system isn't new. It's been in effect for over a decade and has kept all of our information safe. It's our Titanic, Piers. No one thought it would come to this."

At that moment, the box that the female agent was holding began to blink red.

"All contaminants have been cleansed from the air. Please proceed with caution," a voice said calmly from the box.

"Alright, that's our cue. It's our job to go in, get the information, destroy what we can't carry, and return what we can to the B.S.A.A. We are not to stop for any reasons," Jill said and looked at Chris, "Director's orders."

"Understood."

"Then let's move," she said and put the device back in her pack. Below they could hear the sound of the front doors being blasted open as the infiltration team entered the ground floor.

Jill quickly ran to the stairwell door attached to the rooftop, the men right on her heels. The door opened easily now that the shutdown was over, and Jill kicked it in with ease. The moment the door was open, all three agents had their guns aiming into the stairwell, but nothing was there. Inside the light flickered warily, its fluorescent hum unsettling. Jill exchanged a silent look with both men before heading inside. Piers followed, then Chris. The stairwell door shut with a heavy clank behind them.

* * *

 

The halls of the falsely named fifth floor were just as barren as the seventh and eighth. That wasn't to say there were no bodies, because there were plenty. The men and women of the Washington, DC, B.S.A.A. Recruiting, Marketing, and Business Management Head Quarters all sat at their respective desks, motionless in death. Some of them had collapsed onto the ground while on their way to grab water or to visit another desk. Others were slumped in their chairs as if sleeping. The agents found them slumped against walls and laid over tables. All dead and none of them reanimated.

Upon finding the first of the victims, Piers had shot it out of habit. The force of the shot had sent the body tumbling, but it did nothing more. Blood oozed out sluggishly and stained the carpet, but nothing else happened. The other corpses were not suddenly awakened by the noise, nor did anyone move. The lack of response was almost more unsettling to the three agents than if one of the bodies hadmoved.

Chris grabbed him by the shoulder and squeezed.

"I think they're really just dead…" he said.

Jill knelt down beside one and gently moved the body this way and that with the barrel of her gun as she examined it. There were no sores, none of the flesh was giving way beneath the pressure of that simple touch, nor did the corpse appear to be an incubator for anything else to come. The body was ashen and cooling, but otherwise no different than any other dead body.

They were all simply dead.

"Maybe it was just a typical toxin," Jill said as she stood.

"A B.S.A.A. base gets attacked and you expect me to believe a biohazard isn't the cause of it?" Chris said as he examined a corpse beside him that had its hand locked with another's, both of them hunched up together in a corner. He grimaced.

"At least they actually died… They didn't have to experience the horror of an actual bioterrorist attack," Piers said as he stopped beside his captain, eyes on the couple in the corner.

"Every act of terrorism is a horrible one," Chris said, "Just because they didn't eat each other doesn't mean these people were any less frightened."

"That's not what I‒"

"‒I know. Come on; let's just get to the fifth floor."

"Don't let your guard down just because these guys aren't dancing," Jill said as she passed them and walked to the elevator, "It could be a new virus. Something that takes longer."

"Right, better to be cautious," Chris said as he straightened his grip on his gun and moved to cover their backs as Piers and Jill then manually forced the elevator doors open. Once the doors had been opened, the box chirped from within Jill's pack.

"Elevator door forced open on level 5.5," the voice said, "Please confirm."

Piers wedged himself between the doors to ensure they stayed open as Jill withdrew and pulled out the box once more. She held it up in her palm and said, "This is Agent Jill Valentine with Agents Piers Nivans and Chris Redfield. We were sent to retrieve the information held on the fifth floor."

And then the voice changed from the automatic, cool tone of the female voice to that of a young man.

"Yes, we've been notified of your coming and have been expecting you," the voice said with no more emotion than the last voice had provided.

"So we're clear to come down?" Jill asked.

"Yes, just give me a moment to disable the explosives along the entrance corridor," the voice said, "Alright, yes. You're clear to come down now. A hand print will be required in order to proceed past the door. Protocol. I'm sure you understand."

"We'll be there shortly."

Then Jill turned off the device and returned it to her pack. When she turned around, Chris was already walking towards the elevator shaft. The huge cord that operated the elevators hung before them just a little ways out of reach. With his flashlight, Chris then scanned the walls of the elevator just below them. The light passed over normal looking elevator walls until finally it exposed a small symbol on the far wall ‒ a globe with a wreath of ivy at its top and "B.S.A.A." through its middle.

"That's our door," Chris said as he took a few steps back. Piers let go of the elevator doors to see if they would hold in place, and when they did he quickly got out of the way. Once the way was clear, Chris took three large steps and leapt across the elevator opening. His large hands latched onto the elevator rope tightly and he held on as he waited for the rope's swaying to even out. Then the older agent allowed himself to slide down a little bit until he was even with the symbol on the wall. With one hand extended, he pressed the flat of his palm overtop the logo. A moment later a square that was just barely bigger than Chris' hand began to glow where he had touched the wall. A light from within the hidden ID pad then scanned his hand twice before fading again.

"Access accepted," the voice said, "Welcome, Former Director Redfield."

"Former director?" Piers whispered from the elevator doorway just as the wall next to the symbol shifted and split, its walls opening like the lens of a camera to reveal a hallway within. The captain then swung himself into the hallway and rolled to a neat stop, gun ready. With the hallway clear just as the security intelligence had promised it would be, he signaled for the other two to follow. Chris hadn't even fully turned around yet before he came nose to nose with a man who looked no older than a college student.

The man was tall, as tall as Chris at least, and had short scruffy hair. He wore a hoodie that had no logo upon it and jeans that looked ages old. His hooded lids hid sharp, icy green eyes that stared at the three agents with an alien sort of intelligence that made the older man's insides squirm. He wasn't human.

"Hello, Former Director Redfield," the man said. Chris scowled.

"I was barely a director for a week and that was years ago, you really don't need to call me that."

"We were programmed to know and respect all of the Directors, Former Director Redfield," the man replied and stared at him through icy, hooded eyes. "Special Agent Valentine, B.O.W. Piers Nivans, please follow me."

And with that, the tall youth turned on his heel and walked down the corridor. Piers growled at him from behind Chris.

"I'm not a B.O.W.!" Piers said as he lunged forward, but didn't get far due to a lack of room in the small hallway combined with his captain being in the way. Chris didn't allow the younger man to squirm through, either. He stayed firm until he knew Piers wouldn't do something stupid like attack the strongest security unit in the B.S.A.A. for calling him what his file identified him as ‒ a B.O.W.

"Calm down," Chris said, "ISAAC is just doing what he was programmed to do. It's not personal."

"Whatever," Piers said and took a step back.

"Please hurry, agents. The last I checked this building was under a terrorist attack and I'd rather not expose my life's work long enough for it to get taken now," ISAAC's voice called from around the corner.

"I didn't know you could program a robot to be bitchy," the young man said below his breath just before Chris elbowed him.

"Cut it out."

Before he could say anything else, Chris and Jill were already halfway down the hall. Piers turned to make sure the elevator shaft was still empty, and then he followed. The hall was long and winding, and after a while Piers wasn't even sure if the so called 'fifth floor' was anywhere near where an actual fifth floor would be. But in the end, it all eventually led them to a large room of floor to ceiling machines, wires, and assorted fans. Screens and monitors displayed the security feed of all of the floors and angles of the building, dead bodies on every single screen. On a few they could see the Secret Agents below scouting throughout the compound.

Other screens streamed endless amounts of data as file after file circulated into the system from various government and B.S.A.A. branches. At the heart of the room was another young man. This one was shorter, lither. He wore a simple long sleeved shirt and pants. The only thing that really stood out about his frame was his eyes ‒ blue in a way none of the agents had ever seen before. That and the huge cord that ran from the base of the man's skull to the ceiling.

When the group walked in, the other robot instantly turned to regard them, and when he did, he smiled. His eyes had merry crow's feet at the corners, which became even more vivid when his smile widened.

"Former Director Redfield, it's a pleasure to meet you. You look just how your most recently updated file portrays you. All of you do. Just how I imagined you all to be."

"Uh… Thanks," Chris said as he looked between ISAAC and ICARUS. "ICARUS, we‒"

"‒are here on a mission, I know. I apologize, it's just that this is the first time I have ever met a human other than my creator. Though I do watch," ICARUS said as he gestured to the security feed, and then his smile washed away beneath an ocean of programming, "Or at least I did… I cannot believe that they are all gone. It only took minutes. If only I had… That reminds me. Former Director Redfield, I would like to report a glitch in my system."

"‒Our programming is clear, ICARUS," ISAAC said suddenly. The man had been so quiet that the agents had almost forgotten he was there. "Protecting this floor comes first."

Chris looked between the two in confusion.

"Is there something wrong with the data?"

"No," ICARUS said, "I would like to report that 0.5 seconds after the virus was released into the air ducts, I was unable to send a report to the head of security of this building to warn them about the contaminant. If I had, then some of them could have been saved."

Chris barely covered his grimace, but ISAAC still caught it. His head tilted slightly when he noticed it, then looked over as Jill took a step forward. That one step closer to ICARUS made ISAAC growl from his place in the doorway.

"We have clearance to be here," she said when she noticed his intent gaze.

"I know."

She gave him a long, wary look before turning back to ICARUS.

"That was not a glitch," Jill said, drawing the robot's attention. "Like ISAAC said, you were programmed with the safety of this floor in mind. Any communication with any other personnel in this building could have compromised you. The information you two protect affect millions of lives, ICARUS, and that's why we're here. We need to take as much of it back to a safer location as soon as possible."

"Millions…" ICARUS repeated.

"Yes, millions."

And then the smaller robot turned to look at her plainly. It was not in his programming to judge, nor was it to feel. But curiosity, questions, a quest for understanding ‒ Jill could see it in the robot's eyes. He didn't understand.

"Two minutes ago, I had not met you, Agent Valentine. I knew you existed because the humans who programmed me said you existed. Now I have met you… So yes, I know there are millions of people in this world. My programming tells me as much," he said as he turned to face the security screens, "But an hour ago, these people were my world. I watched them drink every one of their morning coffees, I saw them file every report. I even saw B.O.W. Nivans when he was first recruited in this very office. I have seen these people come and go. They celebrated holidays, got excited about snow… I know the world is much bigger for you, but for me it was quite small."

"ICARUS, we really need‒"

"‒I could have saved them, but you programmed me not to."

His tone was not accusing. He was simply repeating the words in order to confirm that they were true, and they were.

Jill opened her mouth and then closed it.

Chris did not open his mouth at all.

ICARUS' eyes suddenly cleared and he nodded. He then reached one finger up to his temple and pressed against the skin there. A small click followed, and then a tiny microchip ejected out through the false-skin there. He took the chip between two fingers and looked at it. For a terrifying second, Chris thought the filtering unit would just destroy it then, even though it was against his programming to do that.

But he didn't. Instead, ICARUS just held the chip out to him, his eyes a little less bright now that it was gone. When the oldest B.S.A.A. agent held out his hand, the robot gently let it fall into it and then curled Chris' fingers around it with his own. His hands were not cold, nor were they warm. They were room temperature, and it made Chris uncomfortable to touch something that both did and did not feel human, but he did not pull away.

"I hope nothing stops you from protecting your bigger world, Former Director Redfield," ICARUS said. Chris could not tell if the robot was being honest or scathing ‒ he wasn't even sure if ICARUS could even contrive anything quite so subtle ‒ but it stung deeply all the same. Chris pulled his hand away.

"You're not coming with us?" Piers asked. Jill looked between them, then excused herself to the hall as she contacted HQ. Chris could just barely hear her as she told them that they had retrieved the data and were ready to leave.

"He can't," ISAAC said, and gestured towards the ceiling where the cord from ICARUS' neck connected into the framework of the security system. "ICARUS is a filtering system for all of the data that comes into this facility. He was never meant to be portable, and even if he was, he cannot function outside of the system in this room."

Piers turned to look at Chris and pointed at ISAAC.

"And what about him?" He asked.

"Our orders were to collect as much as we could‒" Chris said.

"‒I understand," ISAAC said and stood a little straighter. "We should go. Now that the data is no longer in ICARUS, it will be harder to maintain. The sooner it is in a secure facility, the better."

"Right," Chris said, then turned to look at the ceiling-bound unit. "ICARUS… you understand what I have to do, right?"

"Of course. It is protocol. I understand."

Chris nodded. "Piers, go to the elevator shaft and make sure the hall is clear. I'll be there in a moment."

"Yes, sir."

Once he and the two robots were all that remained, Chris walked around the room and set in place several remote bombs around the room. When he was done, he walked back to ICARUS and curled the robot's fingers around the detonator. "Do you know how to use this?"

"Yes."

"Once the Secret Service men have left, do it," Chris said, and tightened his hand around the other's minutely. "I'll make sure this information was worth the cost that was paid."

ICARUS smiled, but it was an odd expression on his face now that his eyes were not as bright. Empty.

"Thank you, Former Director Redfield."

He nodded, then turned to ISAAC.

"Alright, ISAAC. Let's go."

Then Chris, and ISAAC followed. He followed him exactly halfway into the hall before he gently grabbed Chris by the elbow to stop him.

"Former Director Redfield," he said somberly, and then stared at Chris. The older man blinked, then looked back in the direction he knew Piers and Jill would be. They needed to go.

He turned back to face the tall robot.

"Yes, ISAAC?"

* * *

 

When Chris finally rounded the corner, Piers was already running down the hall and leaping at the rope. By the time he had shimmied up the rope and back onto the fake fifth floor, the older B.S.A.A. agent had also grabbed the rope and was beginning to make his way up. Jill and Piers both helped pull him up to his feet once he made it out of the shaft, and it was then that Piers noticed that there was no one behind him.

"What happened to ISAAC?"

"The world he had been watching for over ten years was about to end and he didn't want to outlast it." Chris licked his lips, then continued. "Only a director can override his programming, so I did."

Chris then handed the tiny chip to Jill and started to walk away. The female agent quickly placed the chip into the protective case the B.S.A.A. had given her for it, then rushed to follow with Piers right beside her.

No one said anything for a long while.

The route back to the helipad was an uneventful one. None of the corpses suddenly stirred, and there was no barking gunfire from downstairs. The Secret Service had no doubt figured out exactly what they had ‒ whatever killed these people hadn't been a virus.

And then Chris stopped.

"ICARUS had said a virus had been introduced into the air ducts, hadn't he?" Chris asked, causing the other two to pause. "But nothing happened…"

Jill had the door to the roof halfway open when she looked back with a frown.

"We can think about that when we finish our mission, Chris. Let's go."

"I‒ Right, yeah. Let's go." 

Jill went out onto the roof first, weapon ready as she scanned the area. Piers followed her, then Chris. But the roof was just as they left it ‒ empty. Despite this, Chris couldn't shake the growing feeling of unease in his stomach. It was like a slow plummeting feeling, and the further he stepped out onto the roof, the stronger the feeling got. Jill and Piers were already to the helicopter and opening the chopper doors when he finally stopped.

Every hair on his body was standing on end now, and he couldn't help but feel like this was a feeling he should recognize. A feeling he had had before. His eyes were sightless as he cast his attention in upon himself, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"Guys," he said, "Wait up a second. Something's not right‒"

And that's when he heard the sound of Piers' head being slammed into the side of the helicopter. He jerked up just in time to see the young man stumble, stunned, as Jill sent a powerful kick sailing right into his chest. The force of the blow sent the man flying, and he landed in a rolling heap a few feet away.

"Jill, what the hell is wrong with you?" Chris demanded as he jogged towards Piers. He hadn't even made it halfway when the other man managed to look up at him, first in disorientation, then with wild, panicked eyes.

"Captain, behind you!"

But the warning wasn't quick enough. Suddenly, Chris' arm was yanked out from behind him and cruelly twisted up behind his back. He yelped as the arm was then pulled tighter and one of his knees was kicked out from under him. There was a wet pop and he howled as his knees bit into the concrete.

Whoever was behind him had kneeled down as he fell, and still remained behind him. They pulled him back tautly and smiled into his ear.

"So you're a captain now. How ironic."

Chris' heart stopped. If the voice had not been so distinctive, he wouldn't have believed it possible. But before he could even ask the man how he survived two rockets and a volcano, there was a sudden stinging pain in his neck.

"What did you‒?!"

And then he was shoved forward. His head knocked against the concrete painfully as Pier was suddenly on his feet. The young man quickly dodged another sweeping kick that Jill delivered his way and raced towards Wesker with his gun firing all the while.

"Pathetic," the blond B.O.W. scoffed. Chris struggled to his feet, knee throbbing and pulse jumping as he watched Wesker move like water and dodge the bullets Piers fired at him. Once the young man was too close to fire anymore, he raised the butt of his gun and attacked the other B.O.W. head on.

"Piers, no‒!" Chris yelled as Wesker dodged once more and sent his open palm directly against the agent's chest. Chris could hear the hollow thump of it hitting, as well as the sharp crack of at least one rib snapping, and then Piers was sailing through the air again. When he landed this time, he didn't get up. "Piers!"

He raised his gun then, but just as he lined his aim with Wesker's smirking face, the world tilted beneath his feet. Images hopped before his eyes, turning everything into a trembling mess. Chris couldn't figure out which Wesker he should aim at and tried blinking to clear his vision.

"What did you do to me?" He snarled. He didn't shoot, not when he couldn't tell the difference between the floor, Wesker, and Piers. He quickly rubbed his wrist against his eyes and tried to blink again. His vision cleared for a second, and then quickly blurred again. Wesker laughed from somewhere close, making Chris jerk his gun in whatever direction he thought the voice had come from.

"Jill, ready the chopper for flight," Wesker said, "This will only take a moment longer."

"Jill? Wha‒?"

He stumbled. His gun felt too heavy for his trembling hands to hold, and when it hit the gun the clatter of its fall was painfully loud. Chris took one step, then two before the world tilted violently in the opposite direction it had been tilting before. When his shoulder hit the concrete, he couldn't feel it.

He rolled onto his back, stared up at the now night sky with unseeing eyes, and wondered if the last thing he'd see before he turned into whatever Wesker had injected him with would be those stars and that sky.

Too bad it's so blurry, Chris thought, wouldn't be such a bad last sight to go on.

He could hear small bursts of static from somewhere, but he didn't know where or from what.

Then fingers pressed into his neck for a while and pulled at his eyelids. When they were done doing that, those hands moved under his arm pits and lifted him. One of his arms was then draped over a strong set of shoulders, and he was dragged to the helicopter. His feet stumbled beneath him uselessly as he tried to struggle, but as his head grew heavy, that too eventually fell forward.

And everything went dark.


	5. Those Who Wait

Piers' fingers lingered and twitched next to the landing pad light bolted into the floor beside him. With every twitch, static crawled from the little light to his skin and disappeared within his body. The bones in his ribcage slowly creaked into place, crackling with the absorbed energy, and as they righted themselves within him, Piers began to breathe easier. He blinked blurrily as wind whizzed around his eyes. Through the haze of his healing concussion, he could just barely see the fuzzy spinning of the helicopter blades as a tall, blond man helped a limp man climb in. The shorter man appeared to be asleep, not stirring up a fuss at all as the blond fastened him to the chopper seat with safety belts before climbing in himself.

When the blond slid the door shut and looked at him through the window with a grin, everything finally clicked in place within the concussed B.O.W.'s mind. The young man sprung to his feet, electricity crackling in his palm as he ran towards the helicopter.

"Captain!"

The blond within only grinned wider and gave him a little salute before the helicopter started to raise up into the air. Wind whipped at Piers' face, but he ignored it as he raced towards the chopper. When he was close enough, he bunched all the muscles in his thighs and leapt for the landing rung on the helicopter.

As a B.O.W., he could feel the difference in his abilities now compared to when he was human. He easily cleared two or three feet more than he ever could have before, but that still didn't matter. His fingers just barely grazed the landing rung, and then slipped free as the chopper rose up and out of reach. Piers landed with a heavy oomph, teeth gritted as he watched the helicopter climb even higher into the air.

"No!" The word exploded from his lungs violently in a mess of rage and frustration. His blood boiled within his veins and his right arm throbbed horribly as he stood there uselessly and watched his captain get abducted. So lost was he in his anger, Piers didn't even notice it when the landing lights on the helicopter pad began to wink out one by one with a little crack-sizzle-fizz all around him.

Jill Valentine, one of the creators of the B.S.A.A., had betrayed them. Had turned their most valuable agent over to Albert Wesker ‒ who should be dead, Piers' mind howled shrilly ‒ and to top it off, she had taken the intel they had retrieved with her. The hope of the B.S.A.A., of the world, was on that chopper and all he could do was watch as it flew away.

Red bled into Piers' vision from the corners of his eyes before all he knew was instinct and anger. A hundred foreign desires crept their way through his blood as his right hand curled into an righteous fist beside him. He tried to breathe through his nose, but there just wasn't enough oxygen to calm him.

He did not become what he had become, die, and then come back just for the hope of the B.S.A.A. to be taken away now. No. Not like this.

Lightning danced from each stripped electrical outlet and leapt to his hand. The blue energy curled and popped around his arm in excitement, and when he threw his hand forward, that energy eagerly obeyed his call. A bolt of electricity sang into the night sky with a howling scream, lighting up the entire area as it arced towards its target. That very light illuminated the helicopter as it pierced it, just as it illuminated the men and women of the Secret Service that then burst through the roof access doors and rushed into a circle of aimed guns and flashlights around Piers.

The helicopter wobbled in mid-air, dropped in altitude, then began to rise again, albeit slowly. Smoke trailed off of it in an angry gush as it disappeared into the night. Once the fixation was gone, the red haze faded ‒ leaving Piers alone with the horror of knowing that the virus was not as dormant as the scientists of the B.S.A.A. believed, and a ring of wary Secret Service agents.

"Don't move," one yelled, closely followed by another, "Put your hands in the air!"

"Please, listen to me," Piers said, oblivious to their demands. "That chopper has Captain Chris Redfield. He's been kidnapped. I managed to hit them hard enough to make them need to land, I think, but we don't have much time. We've got to follow that smoke and‒"

"Shut up and put your hands up!"

"Wait, please, just listen. Albert Wes‒"

"Don't give me a reason to shoot you, kid. Put your damn hands up!"

"Whoa, wait! I'm a member of the infiltration party. I'm Special Agent Piers Nivans of the B.S.A.A. Don't shoot!" Piers said as he slowly reached into the pouch attached to his belt. "I'll just reach into my pack and grab my ID‒"

"I said don't. Bloody. Move," one of the agents growled from in front of him. "We have strict orders to kill anything that isn't human, and after that light show, there isn't one damn thing you can do to convince me that you're human."

"What? I didn't do this! Listen to me, I'm a part of the Infiltration Team‒"

"‒I don't care who you were, our orders are to‒"

"‒Damn it, listen to me," Piers yelled, "The B.S.A.A. already knows what I am. I was sent here under Captain Chris Redfield's supervision, and if you don't stop pointing your guns at me, we're going to lose him!"

"What?"

Piers pointed in the direction the helicopter escaped in.

"My party was attacked by Albert Wesker. Agent Jill Valentine double-crossed us and led us into a trap. They took the data we were sent to retrieve, as well as Captain Redfield. If don't believe me, fine, but just get out of my way so I can go save him while that helicopter is still in the area!"

The man who appeared to be in charge of the ring of agents then narrowed his eyes at Piers from over the barrel of his gun.

"Sir?" One of the other agents asked.

"I'm sorry, kid, but I have my orders," the agent said, "It's nothing personal."

"The B.S.A.A. had to have told you about me," Piers pressed, "I'm not some mindless monster!"

"Yeah, they told us about you." Something lightened in Piers' gut and he sighed as he lowered his hands, but the agent's weapon never lowered. "They said that if we catch you alone without your handler, we are to kill you on sight. It's nothing personal."

Piers could hear it when the leather of the man's glove began to compress slowly towards the trigger. The B.S.A.A. agent growled as that coil of anxiety returned to his gut with a vengeance. He could feel that heavy pulse begin to throb in his right arm again as he glared down the barrel of the gun pointing at his head. He felt a little thrill of excitement and terror as static began to pool into the palm of his hand. Flickers of light reflected off of the whites of the assorted agents' eyes and their collective guns.

Before either party could pull the trigger, the door to the roof access banged open a second time. None of the trained agents moved or turned to look. All eyes remained on the B.O.W. except for those of the head agent, who spared a second to glance at the newcomer from over Piers' shoulder.

"Coordinator Birkin," the agent said, "We've got this under control."

"I think Special Agent Nivans is more than capable of controlling himself, Agent Wright," Sherry said. At the familiar sound of the woman's voice, Piers turned slightly to see her just as she gently pushed down the guns of the two agents closest to her and entered the circle.

"Sherry?"

"Yeah," she said as she gently grabbed Piers' right hand. At the touch, the sizzling sound cracked and popped louder as it came in contact with Sherry's skin. Piers flinched at the sudden smell of burning flesh. "Please, whatever you're doing… stop. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you can control this."

And just like that, he jerked his hand from her grasp and the electricity ended. In its place, horror yawned widely in his stomach. His breath hitched.

"Oh God, Sherry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to ‒ are you alright?"

She smiled and held her hand up for him to see. The burns were fading quickly right before his very eyes, and the skin already was returning to a healthy, pale pink color.

"Nothing I can't handle," she said, and then turned to face the head agent. "Agent Wright, you can relax. I will vouch for Special Agent Nivans in Captain Redfield's absence until we can resolve this with the B.S.A.A."

"Captain Redfield," Piers whispered, then turned to Sherry. "The captain has been taken. We've got to follow that helicopter! I managed to hit it, so I think‒"

Sherry frowned and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but our air team just confirmed that the helicopter you attacked did not land. They were tailing it, but they ran out of fuel. Someone cut the lines… We'll keep our eyes on the sky, but for now there's nothing we can do until we can man up another chopper. We have a few ground parties chasing it, but it's not looking good."

"No, you don't understand. We can't just abandon the captain with that lunatic!" Piers urged and took a desperate step forward. The agents around him automatically raised their weapons, but Sherry just motioned for them to lower them once more.

"Believe me, I know better than most what Albert Wesker is capable of. I was put into hiding for years under the sole purpose of hiding me from the man. So I understand, I do. But that doesn't change the fact that right now, there is nothing we can do," she said, then grabbed him by the forearm. "That doesn't mean he is lost to us, though. We will find him, Piers."

Piers nodded slowly.

"So what's the plan?" He asked.

"As of right now, the plan is to return you to the rendezvous point so you can explain what happened. We'll make our plans from there."

His gut clenched.

"And you'll vouch for me?"

Sherry smiled at him reassuringly, then turned to face the agent. The way her face could so quickly and drastically change from friendly to in charge reminded Piers that this girl was not just a friendly face. She was a soldier.

"Agent Wright, alert HQ that we have found Special Agent Nivans in one piece. Let them know that Captain Chris Redfield has been abducted by who we believe to be Albert Wesker, and that as of right now, we believe we have identified the mole. We'll be heading out to the rendezvous point in ten. Get ready."

"Yes, ma'am," the agent said with an unconvinced growl as he holstered his weapon and shouldered his way past Piers. Piers couldn't help but smirk a bit when the contact caused an involuntary spark to discharge, lightly shocking the man for his aggressive action. The agent yelped, then walked off with an even darker glare. Sherry looked at him disapprovingly.

"That's not going to help your case," she scorned.

Piers had enough grace to look a bit guilty. He ran a hand through his hair and turned his gaze back to the point where he last saw the helicopter. The sky was too dark now to see anything, and although the light from the city illuminated a lot, the darkness would cover their escape once they exited the city limits. Chris was gone.

Sherry's hand on his forearm tightened, drawing his attention.

"For all the times Chris has killed Wesker, the man has never once been able to return the favor. He'll be fine. We'll find him."

"Yeah…" Piers murmured, "If the B.S.A.A. even lets me help…"

"Chris isn't your only friend in this, Piers. You're not alone."

"I‒ thanks, Sherry."

"I owe you two big time for saving our butts back in that underwater base. It's the least I can do. Plus, us freaky B.O.W.s have to stay together, right?"

The corner of Piers' lips twitched up into a small smile, and the night sky suddenly seemed a little less endless.

* * *

 

The helicopter had stabilized now as it glided through the dark night that lingered over Maryland and away from DC. Jill piloted the craft with expert, but empty eyes, never once saying a word. When a black leather hand extended itself to her, she knew exactly what it wanted. She quickly pulled the little case from her pack and dropped it in his hand.

That hand then opened the case and looked at the little chip within. With a snap, the small case was closed once more and cleared the view to show Chris Redfield slumped within the safety belts that held him to his seat. The sedated brunette laid their limply, his head lolling onto his shoulder, completely unaware of the man who watched him. A smile bloomed beneath Wesker's dark sunglasses as he scanned the brunette for damage. Other than the trauma to the knee, the captain of the B.S.A.A. looked to be in good condition.

"Good work, Jill," he said, "You retrieved everything, just as I ordered it. Though the B.O.W. was… unexpected."

"His presence was unavoidable," she said blandly. "I apologize."

"He did not make any difference, we got what we came for. That's all that matters."

Jill turned to look at him a for short moment, her eyes flickering to the leather clad man's hands as he pulled out a syringe of brightly glowing red fluid and began to twirl it idly. She returned her gaze to the sky and asked, "Will you commence with the next step of the plan now?"

"No… We only have one chance. I won't waste this opportunity on haste," he said, then smirked as he regarded the sleeping B.S.A.A. agent. "You know how it goes, after all. All good things to those who wait."


	6. The Masks We Wear

When Chris woke, it was slowly. The sedative he had been injected with had mostly tapered off, but it still left a lingering feeling of disorientation behind. The B.S.A.A. agent groaned as he struggled to make his way to the surface of the fog in his mind. His limbs tingled and felt uncoordinated, but he still managed to find his face when he reached for it. Small victories.

He rubbed at his eyes for a moment and tried to piece together the scattered fragments of memory he was able to stumble upon in the fog. When the fog finally cleared, all those fragments slammed together too quickly. He jerked forward into a sitting position, wild eyed and heart thundering. Albert Wesker was alive. He kidnapped him, and as of right now Chris didn't know where the hell he was.

But his hands were free. And human.

Chris looked down at them with a frown as he flexed his fingers and stretched the lingering numbness out of his palms. He then looked down at his feet to find them much the same. Free, human, and numb. His surprise was only amplified when his reaction caused a small bloom of laughter to present itself beside him. Once upon a time he might have reeled back in shock. That feeling still burned his blood ‒ he wanted to reel back, but twenty years of experience calmed his features into a mask. The same mask he would have worn for his men, had they been there. Even so, Wesker could see his expression for what it was: a mask.

"Calm yourself, Christopher. If I wanted you dead, you would not have woken here, I assure you."

Chris glared at him.

"Wesker," he growled.

"It is good to see you have regained what you lost in Edonia," Wesker said pleasantly. He was perched in a cheap looking chair, it's back to his front and his arms crossed languidly across its top. He smiled from behind his shaded glasses and idly wagged the syringe he held in his fingers. "I might have killed you if you were still the sodden drunk you were back in that bar they dragged you out of."

"You drugged me." And in all honestly, Chris still couldn't believe it. Wesker had never been a man to resort to using chemicals to make things easier. More chaotic, yes, but never easier.

"It is not my preferred method, but it was the most effective one given the circumstances. I have learned not to underestimate a Redfield," Wesker said. Despite admitting his past failures, his smile did not fade. Instead, it grew. "You should be flattered, really."

"In that case, I'm so honored that you drugged me."

"I'd say you haven't changed…but it would appear that you have."

Wesker let the statement hang there, but the B.S.A.A. captain didn't take the bait.

"How did you survive?" Chris asked. The question seethed out of his teeth, burning as brightly as his morbid curiosity. Two rocket launchers and a volcano. If that couldn't do it ‒

"Simple really. I'm surprised you didn't come to the conclusion already yourself. The same way I survived the fall at the Spencer Estate. It wasn't me."

The steel in Chris' voice just grew colder despite the way his blood boiled in frustration. But years of experience at playing the twisted man's game had taught him one thing: Wesker thrived off of making other people feel small, helpless, and weak. So Chris would show nothing but impassiveness, or die trying.

"How did you survive?" He asked again.

Wesker quirked a brow at him. "You do not believe me?"

"What reason do I have to believe you? I felt your hands around my throat, and I watched you fall out that window. I killed you personally in Africa. I held you down as Sheva stabbed you again, and again, and again. I saw you sink into that lava. I pulled the trigger. I watched you die and I know it was you. So how did you survive?"

"I'm surprised at you, Christopher. You'd rather believe that I have some sort of superhuman immortality than believe the very simple truth that I'm telling you. Those men you killed were not me."

"Not men. Man. You," he growled, frustration rising. He had to stop and take a deep breath to calm himself. "It was you."

"I cannot fault you for thinking that, I suppose. Those men did look like me, as they should. They were my clones, after all."

"I ‒ What?"

"My clones, created with the sole purpose of distracting the B.S.A.A. from my true ambitions. After the Arklay Mountains, I realized that if I were to get anywhere, I would need a man as talented and clever as myself to keep your agency off my tail. So I cloned myself, which proved to be a good choice, because Jill did in fact kill him at the Spencer Estate," he said with a dispassionate shrug. "So then I made another, but at that point certain qualities about my biological nature had changed… the clone was defective, but still upheld its purpose. It distracted you and gave me the time and cover to continue with my own endeavors."

"Clones…You cloned yourself."

"This really shouldn't be so hard to grasp, it's hardly beyond my capabilities."

"I killed your clone."

"I'm quite glad you did, too. It was rather disturbing to find out a reflection of myself existed that resorted to infecting himself with Uroboros, of all things. Even if that reflection was defective from the start." The disgust in Wesker's tone confused him. "He would not have lasted much longer whether you came along to kill him or not. Those injections would only continue to stabilize him for so long."

"I thought Uroboros was your 'perfect virus'."

"It was a virus that turned people into parasitic worms, Christopher. The warped dream of a remnant; a pale imitation of my goals."

"I don't believe you."

"Say that all you like, but on some level you already believe me," he said as he straightened in his chair regally. "Because on some level, you knew in Africa that something was wrong, that something just didn't make sense. Injections to stabilize a virus that had never given me trouble in the past. Using a vain tool like Excella to further my plan. Rushing things along when they were not ready. Infecting myself with an imperfect virus. Because honestly, if I knew the virus was perfect, don't you think I would have infected myself with it before you arrived?"

"I‒" And then the words died in the B.S.A.A. agent's throat. It was true. All during the mission in Africa, his stomach had felt stale and heavy with the feeling that this was all wrong. Because the blond was right, all of those thoughts were things that had been dragging at his heels during the entire ordeal. If not for his burning need to find ‒

"And what about Jill?" Chris said as his muscles stiffened furiously, "What did you do to her? Where is she?"

"She is here. She's fine."

His guts coiled tightly and grew cold as a thought struck him, freezing him to the center of his heart. "Is it even her? Is she… Is she a clone, too?"

Wesker grinned.

"I figured you would wonder that. Whether you chose to believe it or not, that woman is in fact Jill Valentine. My clone broke the majority of the fall and I salvaged the rest."

His coiled guts eased a bit, but he didn't know if what Wesker said was a good thing or not. If it was her clone, than one of his most trusted partners was truly dead. If it wasn't her clone ‒ if that woman who had betrayed them on the roof was really Jill…

His hand curled tightly into the sheets, but he managed to resist from launching himself at the man and starting something he didn't know if he could finish. If he was lying and a volcano couldn't kill him, then he couldn't go about this in his usual fashion. He nearly let out a panicked laugh when he realized that he was hoping that the man was actually telling the truth. He couldn't deal with the idea of the blond actually being as immortal as he had boasted back in Africa.

His head throbbed with all of the information, but he ignored it.

"I want to see her," he said.

"Really? After what she did to you and your B.O.W. friend?"

"What‒ How do you know about that?"

"After you passed out, he tried quite valiantly to stop us by utilizing all of the electricity around him to strike down our chopper. He failed, but it was…interesting, none the less. It is truly too bad that he is already infected. He might have made it."

The captain within Chris froze in horror upon that moment. Piers was the last man remaining of their unit from those horrible days in Europe. The thought that after everything he might have died on the roof while Chris was sleeping made his heart flinch painfully. But before he could even open his mouth long enough to question what the blond meant by 'might have made it', Chris saw the world lurch oddly in his vision. He blinked and tried not to show any other sign of the sudden weakness. It could be a lingering effect of the sedative, he soothed himself, don't let Wesker know.

"Where are we?" Chris managed to say. The black in Wesker's leather outfit was beginning to turn into an overexposed purple color, and the brightly lit walls of the white cell he was in were making his temples pulse in agitation. He hoped by pursuing a less excitable question it would help ease whatever aftereffects from the sedative were bothering him.

"Somewhere isolated. Somewhere where I can safely pursue the next step of my plan."

"And what is that?" He asked and tried not to blink despite the fact that everything just felt wrong. The hairs on his arm were standing at attention again and his gut was wringing itself into a knot within him. He found himself wondering why the feeling from the rooftop had suddenly reappeared, or if it had been there since he woke up but just hadn't noticed due to the drugs.

Wesker returned his chin to where it had been resting on his crossed arms and peered at him from over the tops of his black glasses. He was looking for something, Chris knew that he was, but he couldn't think straight enough to riddle out what it could be.

And then B.O.W. smiled.

"You. You are the next step. You have been for quite some time."

"You're going to kill me," he said. He was sure that was it, it had to be. Why the man felt the need to kidnap him in order to do it, who knew ‒ maybe to make it as long and painful as possible without interruptions ‒ but that didn't matter. Chris knew he needed to get away.

"Quite the contrary, Christopher," Wesker admitted as he waved the syringe still hanging between his fingers. "I'm just finishing a little experiment I started years ago."

And then Chris was on his feet and across the locked cell, hunched down into a defensive crouch. His weapons were gone, his combat pants were torn at the knees, and his boots were oddly missing, but that didn't stop him from preparing for a fight.

"If you think I'm going to let you get anywhere near me with whatever is in that thing, you're sorely mistaken," Chris said, mask crumbled in light of the situation. In its place was an animalistic snarl, determined to go down fighting. One moment passed, then another, and Wesker still had yet to move.

Then the blond chuckled and turned in his chair to better regard him. Legs now crossed, he held the syringe up for the brunette to better see. The needle was moderately long and the container seemed to be double-reinforced somehow, but what startled the B.S.A.A. agent the most was not that. It was that the syringe was empty and had been the entire time.

"I don't understand," he said. His skin felt colder.

"I think you do," Wesker smiled. He then flicked the syringe across the room. It clattered to the floor with a hollow clatter. If Chris could reach it first, he could use it as a weapon. Maybe introduce the blond's bloodstream to a unhealthy dose of oxygen and kill him that way. Or at least make him moderately uncomfortable while the agent took his chance to get away. But Wesker could see his intentions clearly in the way he held himself, and Chris knew which of the two of them would win in a race. He didn't have Sheva with him this time to slow the other man down. "I injected you twenty minutes ago. While you slept."

Chris' heart constricted within his chest. Sweat burned its way into his eyes and no amount of blinking cleared his vision. His skin felt jittery and hyper alert. His knees ached more forcefully than they ever had before. Old wounds and scars sang symphonies along the lines of his nervous system. The agent had just a moment to wonder if knowing he had been injected with something was making him psychologically pronounce these feelings or if they truly had been there to begin with ‒ but then the thought was sliding through his fingers like sand.

"Coward."

"As I said, if there is one thing I've learned from my unfortunate clones, it is not to underestimate you."

All of the answers he had supplied so willingly, all the time he had spent explaining things, all the opportunities he missed to lord all of that information over the agent's head ‒ Chris knew something had been wrong, but getting those answers was too tempting to pass up. As Wesker knew they would be. He had been biding his time, giving Chris everything he wanted, all the while knowing that it wouldn't matter soon enough.

Another surge of pain welled up within him and he struggled to stay standing. He clenched his jaw against the feeling of things shifting within him and tried to focus.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Chris snarled furiously through his teeth. "You played me!"

Wesker smiled at him appeasingly.

"Don't fight it, captain. The more excited you get, the faster your blood will push the virus through you. There is no going back now. Only forward."

Chris' legs flagged wearily beneath him until he finally sunk down to one knee. His limbs shook with the same weak trembling that they would shake with whenever he drank too much and found himself kneeling before the toilet. If he shook any harder, he feared he would fly apart at the seams. The quaking stole the strength from his limbs, and the harder he fought it, the weaker he felt.

The light from the walls stung.

"Don't worry, it will all be over soon." Chris didn't realize the blond was standing beside him until he heard the creak of leather as the man lowered down to a kneel at his side. Cool hands pressed at his forehead and checked his pulse. He tried to flinch away, but the fingers just followed him. "The dawn of a new world is at hand and you will be there to see it. Be glad."

"I hope I eat you whenever this is done," he muttered.

Wesker laughed.

"I think you are confused about what is going to happen, Christopher. But that's okay, we have plenty of time to prepare. Once you're finished becoming what you were destined to become, you and I will proceed with the next step."

"I'm not going to help you do anything."

"We'll see."

And then he was being lowered to the floor and a strap of leather was slid between his teeth. His limbs locked up and seconds turned into years of hot, blinding waves of change. Sweat pooled around him, making him slide sickly on the floor as he writhed. The blond spoke nonsense to him, a bunch of syllables and consonants stringed into some code he couldn't understand. The words bled in one ear and faded like dust out the other.

But Wesker never left. Eons passed and the man watched every throbbing second of it. The dusk of humanity waned and crossed the rising dawn of a new and foreign entity within the brunette. Organs rekindled themselves into stronger structures. Tissue was reinforced, eyes were remade, senses were doubled, skin was toughened, and all the while Chris writhed upon the floor. The blazing brightness of the virus burned away everything in its waking, searing through his veins until nothing was left of his former self but ash.

And something new rose in its place.


	7. Sherry's Promise

Piers sat at the far end of a long, expensive conference table. A gaggle of lab-coats were standing around one end of the table, conversing animatedly among one another as Piers, two armed B.S.A.A. soldiers on either side of him, and the executive vice director of the B.S.A.A. watched on sourly. Feeling the agents' ire, the head scientist quickly waved the other lab-coats away and pulled up a hologram. The hologram spun slowly at the center of the table and portrayed a 3-dimensional imitation of Piers during his initial infection, just as he had described it to the scientists during the beginning of his voluntary incarceration. The claws at the end of his mutated right arm twitched and clacked together sickly as static crawled up and down the offending limb with little pops and bursts. The hologram's face was peeling, too. Piers had forgotten about that. After a while, the excruciating feel of his skin decaying right off his very face paled beneath the roar of the voices and the lingering feeling of wrongness spreading within his arm.

The image's blind right eye stared at him sightlessly, making Piers swallow down the bile that began to climb up his throat at the sight.

He averted his eyes, and in doing so caught the gaze of the vice director. Vice Director Samuel Dawson's dark eyes seemed even darker in the dimmed conference room. The deep lines marring his face were not new, but they did appear to be decades deeper now. Time had eroded youth from the man's face like loose sand from a dry beach, and Piers couldn't decide how old he thought the vice director might be. Age didn't really matter in their industry though. Dawson's eyes could cut could diamonds, that's all Piers really needed to know in order to ascertain that he was screwed. They were going to lock him in a base so far in the ground, he'd become the new core of the earth.

But still, Piers stared him down. A guilty man would look away, but Piers bled red, white, and blue. He was a good man, and he'd make sure the vice director knew it when he stamped the document that sent him down.

Dawson looked away first, but Piers didn't feel like he won anything.

"I thought you said the virus was dormant, doctor." It was a simple question, but Dawson made it sound like an interrogation.

"I did. It was," the doctor stuttered. "What I mean to say is that based off of our initial observation, everything pointed to the conclusion that the amount of energy exerted to restore the subject's body in turn caused the virus to fall into a dormant state - too weakened to further function within the host. Our first tests just a few months ago proved that he healed as slowly and normally as any other human when faced with wounds; his eyesight was normal; his speed and abilities were only heightened moderately; and he did not maintain the ability to mutate. We tried to stimulate the virus, but nothing worked. As of yesterday, the virus was dormant."

"And now?"

"The quick tests we were able to perform here before the meeting indicate that the subject's eyesight is improving, his abilities have further increased, and both shall likely continue to do so as he absorbs more energy from his surroundings."

Dawson straightened in his seat. "He's doing this as we speak?"

"I can't control whether or not I absorb the energy around me, sir," Piers said sharply. "But seeing as the electricity in the building hasn't gone out, I wouldn't say I'm absorbing all that much of it, now am I?"

"You would do well to bite your tongue while I decide what to do with you considering the circumstances, Agent Nivans," the vice director said.

"I thought you did decide. The men on the rooftop definitely seemed like they knew what you had in mind."

"Agent Nivans‒!"

"‒You're wasting valuable time and resources by keeping me here!" Piers exploded. He slammed his palms on the table, making the expensive wood shudder. His skin stung bitterly. "I could be out there looking for the captain!"

"How are we supposed to let you go out there unsupervised? We don't even know what you are!"

"I am a soldier of the B.S.A.A.! I have bled for this organization and this nation, damnit, so stop treating me like a monster!" One of the overhead lights above Piers dimmed momentarily, popping in that way lights did when they were on the brink of extinguishing. Piers straightened and took a deep breath through his nose. The flickering passed, but his frustration didn't. "Sherry Birkin said she would vouch for me."

Dawson had noticed the lights, Piers knew he had. The young agent was surprised when the man took a moment to take a breath himself instead of antagonize him about his lack of control.

"Yes, we were informed as such, but shortly after arriving here with you, Sherry Birkin was called away on a matter of national security. You couldn't go and she couldn't stay. An unfortunate turn of events, but it is what it is. Despite what you might think, Agent Nivans, it is not my goal to imprison you or execute you. I am aware of the level of service you have provided this organization, but my job is to protect to soldiers you would fight beside, and it would be negligent of me to put you out there with them when we don't understand just how much you've changed," Dawson said. The older man didn't look empathetic, nor did he look at Piers with distain. He was stating facts. "I know what you might think based off what happened on the rooftop, and you can think what you want. But I don't regret telling those men to protect themselves from a man who might lose his humanity at any moment. You had to make that call yourself once, didn't you? Back in Edonia?"

"Captain, we gotta move!"

Flesh tore from the burnt husks of their teammates' bodies with wet slurps and sick splashes as huge limbs flailed from their human cocoons and stretched with new life. One by one, each hunched over chrysalis broke open, creatures roaring and swinging as the bars finally rose back into the ceiling.

"Not like this," Chris whispered.

"Now, we gotta go!"

Chris had his gun up, Piers could see it, but he knew the man's body ‒ his instincts ‒ were at war with his head. They were monsters; they were his men. When Finn burst out from the group first, claws extended, Chris raised his weapon out of habit.

And then did nothing as Finn grabbed him and slammed him into the wall like a ragdoll. One heavy fist collided solidly with the man's chest, then another, until finally he was thrown to the ground. The crack of the captain's skull against the concrete made Piers taste bile, and a phantom pain procured at the back of his own head in sympathy.

When Chris' body finally crumbled to a halt, he didn't move again.

"Chris!" He howled, then he raised his gun and started firing.

Piers averted his eyes. That decision hadn't been easy. He trained with those men, they were his brothers. Finn had been too young. They had all been too young. Pulling that hairpin trigger shouldn't have been so easy when it hurt so much.

"I understand that, but the captain is out there in the hands of the lunatic he pushed into a volcano, sir. We're running out of time," Piers said. A look passed over Dawson's face then, one that passed just as quickly, but Piers still caught it. One time his old team poured a bucket of ice water in his stall when he was showering. Realizing that the B.S.A.A. wasn't even looking for Chris kind of felt like that. "…No. No, no, no, you've got to be shitting me!"

"Agent Nivans, you need to look at this from an objective point of view. Captain Redfield has been captive for nearly a day now. A team has been manned and deployed to find him, but in all likelihood, the captain is either dead or as good as. No one wants to say it, but it's true. In the meantime, we have to concentrate on the things we can change. The things that affect the safety of the whole world and not just one man." Piers just kept shaking his head in short, disbelieving shakes. Dawson continued regardless. "Albert Wesker has our data. We need to get that data back and delete whatever copies he might have manifested before he uses that data to the disadvantage of billions of innocent people. I wish the circumstances were different, but they're not. Securing that data is more important than Chris Redfield."

"They're both in the possession of the same damn man!"

"That's if Chris is alive, and if we happen to find him while in pursuit of the chip, of course we'll do whatever we can to save him. But he is not our first priority here." Dawson slowed for a second before finally saying, "And there is also the unfortunate possibility that Jill Valentine was not the only mole among us."

Piers felt the world still beneath his feet. The air felt too dry, his clothes felt too tight, and his pulse felt too strong for his veins.

"He's one of the founders of this very organization! I died for that man, he's not‒!"

"‒Jill Valentine was also a founder of this organization, Agent Nivans. Both times that Wesker was announced as dead, it was either Jill or Chris that had been his supposed undoing and both were always present. It's rather convenient that both times in which they were involved, they failed. I know it's not what you want to hear, none of us do, but you might need to prepare yourself for that possibility. Wesker was their captain for a time, after all. It's not impossible."

Piers could feel wood from the table peeling beneath his finger nails. The conference room phone let out a warbled beep before it died in a small, smelly burst of smoke. Dawson simply raised his brows pointedly at him. The guards on either side of Piers stiffened.

"That man sacrificed everything for this organization. How dare you‒!"

A hand laid itself upon his shoulder and squeezed sternly. It was a warning, but it also held something else ‒ understanding. Piers hadn't heard the door to the conference room open over the thump of his blood pounding through his ears, but when he lurched around to address the owner of the hand, the lights suddenly ceased flickering.

"You know, you're really not helping yourself with the lightshow, kid. Keep it up and the director might go back on the deal I just spent an hour convincing her to take me up on," Leon said with a sideways smile.

"Agent Kennedy," Piers started, but stopped when Leon squeezed his shoulder and shook his head, silently telling him to shut up. Then the older agent turned his attention to Director Page behind him. She looked exhausted, but ready to take a B.O.W. down herself if she had to.

"Director, would you be so kind as to explain to the situation Vice Director Dawson for me? I believe Agent Nivans and I shouldn't waste anymore time."

"Of course, Agent Kennedy."

Leon then steered Piers towards the door and the young man allowed it. As the older agent passed the director, she grabbed his arm and gave him a fierce look.

"Do not make me regret this decision," she said.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

And then they left, just like that. Piers could hear the soldiers shift uncertainly as the vice director immediately began to argue with the director, but those voices grew quieter and quieter as the doors eased closed. When Piers had entered that conference room, it was in the midst of a full assortment of the B.S.A.A.'s finest soldiers. He thought he'd be escorted out the same way ‒ down to a dark place where he'd never even find out if the world had burned to hell without him or not. The fact that he instead walked out into the hallway now with an ally beside him left him with a feeling that punched the air from his lungs.

"What's going on?" Piers said as soon as the door slid shut with a prim click behind them. When Leon tried to grab the young man by the elbow and steer him forward again, Piers jerked his arm away. "Look, I'm grateful, but I want some answers. I'm not some weapon to be passed from hand to hand, damnit! I've been in that damn room for hours and just now found out that no one is even looking for the captain. What the hell is going on?"

Leon sighed.

"You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?"

"No. I appreciate what you're doing for me, but no. I need to know."

Leon gave him a considering look. Chris had given him the same look before. Piers halfway expected Leon to shove him back through the doors and say 'to hell with it, keep him'.

"At least follow me," Leon finally said, "I'll tell you on the way."

"…Alright."

When Leon took his elbow this time, he didn't pull away. The blond's trot was a quick one, but Piers didn't have any trouble keeping up.

"Agent Birkin was assigned to a matter of national security, but before she left, she called me. Told me all about what happened and how they were going to give up the manhunt in favor of the chip. The chip is the amalgamation of several different organizations, the B.S.A.A. isn't the only one manning up a team. So I offered to head up the Secret Services' team. My mission is to find the chip and monitor you. Your mission is to find Chris, which given the circumstances and the whole 'I'm monitoring you'-thing, really makes it my mission, too."

"And you're not afraid to work with me?"

Leon let out a short, barking laugh. "Kid, you are not my first infected-partner rodeo. Hell, you probably won't even be my last. I've had a few, plus one particularly interesting time when I myself was included."

"You were infected?"

"Briefly, and only briefly, thank God. Almost got enslaved to the biggest creeper in existence. Literally. He was this mutated plaga-spider sort of thing," Leon said, and made spider-like gestures with one hand as he made a disgusted face. "Would've really blown if we hadn't found that laser‒ Ah, here we go."

Leon then opened a door and pushed Piers' through it. The younger agent then stumbled out to the hanger bay attached to the base that they had black-bagged and brought him to. Out on the tarmac was a private jet waiting for them.

"Didn't the reports say you crashed the last jet you were on?" Piers said uncomfortably.

"Yeah, well, you try flying a plane with a deranged, gas-spouting boob monster trying to kill you and see if you can do any better," Leon muttered under his breath, then gestured for him to follow. "Come on, let's go. Claire will kill me if we don't get to Chris before Wesker returns the favor and pushes him into a volcano out of spite."

"That's not funny," Piers said as he started to jog after the blond.

"I know, Claire can be scary as hell."


	8. The Switch

He was somewhere deep and dark. Space as thick as water enclosed upon him from all sides, cool and soothing upon the skin of his subconscious self. The darkness did not speak, it did not need to. He could simply feel what it was trying to say. It spread across his limbs and held him suspended. It helped him breathe and coaxed old pains out of his strained muscles. It pressed itself into his eyes and through his body. Rewired things he didn't know needed rewiring until something gave way and just felt right. Perfect.

For a long time, he just drifted there. Maybe he was up. Maybe he was down. Maybe he wasn't at all. And that's okay, the blackness said. It's okay to be nothing at all. It made things easier, but for what, he didn't know. Every time the blackness tried to explain, static filled his ears and fogged up his mind. Showed him images of hunched backs and stretching, melted fingers. Of a woman tumbling through a window. Another hanging helplessly from a beam. A young man smiling through a porthole window - he looked terrified - and always his hand, grasping and pounding and useless.

It hurt too much to try to identify those faces. They just faded like wisps of smoke through his fingers when he tried. It became harder to hear them - their laughter, their screaming. His brow furrowed, his head ached. He reached for it, but could not find it in all of the darkness. He wondered if he had one at all. Before he could follow that thought too deeply down the rabbit hole, the blackness pressed softly against his brow and ceased the static. Don't think about that, it would say. An alien sensation crept through his brain like a mother's fingers playfully teasing a child's stomach. Soft, feathery touches that eased his mind. He sighed.

But still, the faces bothered him. Haunted him with familiar smiles and blurred features. He should know them. He reached for them again, but the more he tried, the tighter those fingers in his mind grew until they suddenly clenched, pressing until the memories started to fall away like petals. He screamed and bubbles burbled from his throat in a explosive torrent.

A hand wrapped around his forearm like steel. It burned with a familiar ache, making his blood sing back to life within the darkness. His sense of awareness spread from his forearm, up to his shoulde and across his body like sonar. He had a body. He had flesh, and blood, and tissue, and pain. His organs writhed, his skin smoldered, and all the while the hand tightened. It made him remember life.

"Do not succumb, Christopher," the voice growled sternly. It stirred up something latent in his blood and made it flare up to the surface. Various layers of years that composed his life bled and melted, and different versions howled and pressed as though they would burst from the pores of his skin all at once. Several voices screamed in hatred and disgust, crowed the man's name in contempt - and one tapered off like a ghost at the end with a small, relieved smile. Captain. Before he could grab that voice and smother it back into the darkness with the other wilted remnants of his past, the owner of the hand spirited the little petal away. He could feel it's passing, sense it was no longer his own. Rage bubbled through his veins. The hand tightened, and though his eyes were not open, he knew the owner of that hand was smirking.

"Yes, use your anger. I did not wait so very long for you to fail me now," the voice said, and anchored him as another wave of change pulsed through his body. The darkness pulled at him, told him it was alright. It was okay to be tired. It was okay to not be at all.

But the hand squeezed harder and made him open his eyes. He roared profanities and his frustration into the thick, watery darkness - bubbles curling from his mouth - but then the anger died as his own face just smiled right back at him with cold, dead eyes. Blue eyes, icier than his had ever been - like sea glass and glaciers. They glowed and pierced him deeply in the blackness, shining like stars in oblivion. Twice as bright.

"After every failed attempt to kill you, you're hardly allowed to die now, Christopher." His doppelganger grinned maliciously at him with a young face, younger than his had been in a long time. But it was not his youth or his unnatural eyes that made the blackness freeze around him. It was the voice - Wesker's voice - tumbling out of his lips that made his regenerated organs threaten to cease functioning.

Then the doppelganger lifted the small, wilted petal between two of his fingers for both of them to see. It was withered and black, and as old as the ache in his knees. His doppelganger looked from it to Chris' face and grinned‒

Then slammed it into Chris' chest. He screamed and howled for ages that yawned on like decades, and bubbles warbled to the surface with his captive cries of agony. The little petal disappeared within himself, and it burned all the way. For such pain it cost him, it was a little flare in the darkness. A small, smoldering thing deep inside - trust.

It glowed gold from within him. Something bitter he had forgotten. Memories seared through his eyes like overexposed filming spinning too quickly on a movie reel - bubbling and yellow and warped as laughter and smiles and his old team whispered through his vision like old ghosts.

And then it stopped. His muscles twitched and jumped as adrenaline pumped through his system. The darkness wasn't so thick now, and he sank through it until his feet finally found a floor and stood solidly upon it. His doppelganger kept him upright by one hand at his elbow. He breathed deeply as that old and foreign coal of trust cooled within him. It settled and disappeared, but he could sense it there. Lingering. His breathing eased. His muscles relaxed. The pain faded, and as it did, he pulled away from the doppelganger and straightened.

Chris put distance between himself and his mirror image, taking in contrasting differences. His 40 year-old body turned to address his 25 year-old body. He glared and his reflection smiled knowingly. The doppelganger's unearthly eyes appraised him, then smiled wider. A smile he had seen before, but not on his face.

"Six billion cries of agony will birth a new balance, and you willbe there to see the dawn."

"I'm not going to let that happen," Chris said, but it sounded weak amidst all the darkness and space around them. In the far corner of his vision, he could see a thin red line break through the darkness and light began to slowly spill over the horizon. He looked towards it, his copy did not.

"A noble lie," his doppelganger said, his dark clothing bleeding into the space around them, "But a lie all the same."

Helplessness and fury burned through his veins at the words, fueling him and pushing his limbs to lung forward. He struck the doppelganger across the face, but his fist didn't connect. Instead, it just passed through darkness as the creature suddenly disappeared. Then he was being spun around by a strong hand at his shoulder, and a large fist collided heavily with his face, sending him sprawling across the endless, black abyss. He lay on his back groaning, feeling as the snapped bones of his cheek slowly mended beneath his skin, and tried to ignore the growing panic at realizing his body shouldn't be healing so quickly.

When his doppelganger than lowered down to a low, kneeling straddle above him, Chris tried to fend off the hands that grabbed the neck of his uniform and pulled him up. Those blue eyes stared into his face and grinned at him from inches away, teeth bared territorially.

"Whether you choose to wake up and face reality or stay here, I will remain. So leave your body to me or fight me, I don't care," the doppelganger said as he raised his fist to strike, "Just decide."

And then the fist landed.

* * *

 

When Chris woke, it was not a full body jerk out of the nightmare, but rather a very quick realization this his eyelids had already been open. Instead of waking from sleep, it was like escaping from some weird extended cousin of sleepwalking. One second, Chris was collapsing in his cell and the next, he was waking up knife deep in a steak. The meat bled pleasantly with finely cooked juices as he slowed his cutting to a stop. His brows wrinkled up as he stared at his plate.

His heart began to beat frantically as he realized that he didn't know how he got there, or why, or for how long he had been sitting there at all. And then over twenty years of training kicked in. Without putting the utensils down, Chris slowly looked up through his lashes and checked his surroundings. The slower and less obvious his movements the better.

He was in a kitchen, seated at a small table. The kitchen wasn't anything special. In all honesty, it actually reminded him of the one back at the B.S.A.A. training facility, but smaller. Way smaller.

And there was another plate beside him, bare hands cutting the steak slowly and more tenderly than he had been. Those hands led to rolled up black sleeves and a face that made his stomach drop. Wesker was eating beside him. Wesker ate, and they were eating together.

Chris grabbed his knife and flew back from his seat, causing it to clatter unhappily to the ground as he put some distance between himself and the blond, knife drawn and ready. A wave of nausea made his nostrils flare as he breathed through it, but his knife remained steady.

"What the hell is going on?!" His throat burned when he spoke, making his voice rasp sickly.

Wesker didn't seem perturbed by the sudden reaction. He didn't even stop eating.

"Ah, you're finally back. Good. I was beginning to wonder if you weren't as viable a subject as I had thought. I'm glad that's not the case."

"What do you mean, 'back'? Back from where? What the hell did you do to me!"

Wesker set down his fork with a sigh and then wiped his face with the napkin beside his leather gloves. "It would be best if you would calm yourself, Christopher. It is not in your best interests to get riled up."

Chris just raised the knife a little higher. "Try me."

"I did not mean in that sense," Wesker said with a small wave of his hand. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Dramatic? You infected me with‒" Chris' outburst stumbled to a stop as everything hit him in a rush. He was infected. Infected. The sudden urge to check himself for mutations overpowered his cautiousness as he flung his arms out and looked down. What he found unsettled him more than he could have imagined.

There was nothing wrong.

No random black tentacles peeking out from his forearms or abdomen. No claws protruding from his fingers or unearthly features marring his skin. If anything, his skin looked healthier - a creamy sort of tan color he hadn't had in years. And younger. He pushed and pulled at the skin of his wrist and hand. Skin that had been beginning to loosen there with age was tight and firm again. He pulled back his loose sleeves - which he distinctly remembered not being loose when he put them on before - to find that his arms were more streamlined and not as buff. He wasn't as slender as he had been back in S.T.A.R.S., but a quick pull at his waistband confirmed that he was definitely thinner than he had been a day and a half ago. His expression must have been confused, because Wesker chuckled, grabbing his attention.

"You're not weaker, if that's what you're wondering. The virus perfected your musculature in accordance with your height and body type. You might seem smaller, but your muscles pack 15 times the punch they did a day ago, I assure you."

Chris scowled, but didn't doubt the man. Years of bench pressing, and the virus did in hours what years could never have achieved. It made him sick. He quickly pulled his knife-hand up in Wesker's direction once more as his free hand pressed against his abdomen, looking for an imperfection. A scar, a mutation - anything.

"You won't find anything. I did not infect you with Uroboros or some other watered-down imperfection of evolution. I perfected you."

"Call it whatever you want but it doesn't change my opinion on it," Chris snarled. "It's inhuman and I want it out!"

"It's not a Plaga, Chris. I cannot simply remove it, nor would I," Wesker said as he rose from his chair. "I'm not sure what it is that's confusing you, but there is no cure for this. It is the cure."

Chris snorted. "A cure for what?"

"Death. Cancer. Illness. Age. The natural degradation of mankind."

"Those things are what make us human!"

"Really? Cancer makes us human? When you think about the natural genetic tendency for women in your family to suffer from breast cancer, you think that it's okay that your baby sister will probably develop it because it's human?" Wesker asked.

"How the hell did you‒?!"

"‒Of course not. No one wants to die. No one wants to deal with arthritis or the natural decomposition of life before death. Don't your knees feel better? Your eyes sharper? Your mind clearer? Look me in the eyes and honestly tell me that you would trade it all back for death."

Chris took a heavy but soundless step forward and growled, "I would." He glared Wesker down and tried not to think about the way he could see his own eyes glowing back on the surface of the man's black, reflective lenses - ice blue and familiar.

Wesker stared at him seriously for a long time, considering his aggressive stance and glaring eyes before smiling slowly and widely.

"Let's see how long you believe that."

"It's not going to change."

"But it will. Even now, it is changing. Your opinion on the human condition is an illusion, Christopher. What you perceive to be normal will soon become detestable as the rest of the world evolves past your morals and ideals about how our weak bodies make us great, and slowly, you will change with it. It is inevitable."

And then Chris threw the first punch, knife whizzing along with his fist as he flung himself at Wesker about a million times faster than he was anticipating he would. It resulted in Wesker dodging with a knowing smirk and Chris lodging his fist into the wall down to his elbow several feet away. He pulled it out, a cloud of plaster escaping with the limb as he stared at the uninjured body part in shock.

"Faster, younger, immune, smarter…well, maybe not smarter for you," Wesker said with a dark chuckle. Chris turned on him with a growl and lunged forward again, though this time concentrating on his velocity. He ended up attacking the blond at a much more acceptable speed, but with all his attention on his movements, he missed it when Wesker dipped out of the way and quickly sent a bruising jab at his ribs. A day ago, that jab would have fractured his ribcage and sent him flying. Now, it barely winded him.

"Evolution is inevitable," Wesker said as he dipped out of the way of another attack. "Even now you are evolving. Adapting to your new abilities, and quite impressively. It is natural to evolve, Christopher. I merely sped up process."

"What gave you the right to do that?" Chris yelled as he delivered a swift roundhouse in Wesker's direction. It was a hair's breadth away from connecting. "There's a reason why we haven't gotten there yet!"

Wesker grinned, "Do you really want to ask me that question?"

Memories bubbled up to the surface of Wesker's clone in Africa, proclaiming his status as god with wide spread arms and a demented glint to his eyes. Tentacles writhing around him as he took step after smoldering step towards him in that damnable volcano, the leather soles of his shoes smoking as they blistered against the molten ground.

His moment of déjàvu cost him, leaving him mentally reeling as Wesker grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back until the pain tore the knife from his grasp with a clatter. He remembered the way Wesker had initially knocked him out back on the roof of the secret base and felt a trill of fear slide through his veins. He struggled, but the blond man simply wrenched the offending limb further.

"As much fun as this has been, finally fighting someone even remotely close to my level, enough. Calm down, Christopher. The last thing I need is for the virus to force you back into a catatonic state just because you got too excited."

He wanted to snarl, he wanted to pull his arm free and continue the fight. He wanted to be free and human and back at the B.S.A.A. He wanted Wesker to just stay dead. But despite all those feelings raging through his head, his body relaxed instead. Not significantly, he didn't suddenly go sprawling to the floor, but the rage that had been fueling his adrenaline crazed fight suddenly felt like sand rushing between his hands when he grasped for it. He could pick up some of it, but not all of it, and the small handfuls he managed to catch weren't enough to continue.

Chest heaving, Chris let out a frustrated growl. "What the hell did you do to me?"

Wesker released his hand then and returned to the table. He gently touched his meal and frowned as he licked his finger clean with a disappointed, "Cold, of course," and looked back at Chris. "I think I've answered enough questions for today."

Chris opened his mouth to argue, but a wave of fatigue and the nausea from when he first woke suddenly washed over him, stealing the words from his mouth as he tried to wait out the sick feeling. When it finally passed, it left him feeling weary and exhausted. He glared at Wesker with a sour look.

"I thought you said the virus was perfect."

"I thought you said pain and weakness made you human?" Wesker replied simply from over his shoulder as he took their plates to the microwave. "It is merely a side effect of the transformation. The virus consumed a lot of energy getting you this far. After disregarding my warning at the beginning of this little conversation, I imagine you won't remain cognitive for much longer."

That made his stomach clench coldly. The thought of returning to a catatonic state while in the presence of a madman turned his blood to ice. The thought of returning to that black abyss from his dream made it worse. Fatigue made him sit down in the seat he had woken up in.

"Will I wake up again?"

Wesker gestured to the large assortment of dirty dishes piled in the sink. "You'll continue to eat me out of my kitchen and most likely return to your cognitive faculties once the virus has completed the transformation, yes."

Chris glanced from Wesker's turned back to the door. Despite the fatigue, it was tempting. Maybe he could find somewhere to hide until the process ended, then escape. His attention must have been on the door for too long, because suddenly Wesker was beside him.

"You can try, but I will find you. You'll find no escape from this, Christopher."

Before he could answer, the microwave was beeping. He blinked, and suddenly a steaming plate was being set down before him. Chris realized that he was beginning to lose time, his mind fading in and out like a bad TV signal. The fact that he wouldn't just slump over and fall asleep unsettled him. It was more like a switch would be flipped and he'd go into power saver mode; like a laptop or a machine.

"This isn't over," Chris muttered.

"I have no doubts," Wesker said with a smirking quirk to his lips as he began to eat again.

And then the switch flipped.


	9. By Any Other Name

After the way Leon had sat in the lush, comfy chairs on the private jet, Piers was surprised to hear the soft huff of relief the man let out when he walked off the plane. He had been draped in his seat in a manner Piers was pretty sure no paranoid secret agent should, but evidently it had been a rouse, which kind of made Piers feel better for feeling so anxious himself. The last time he had been in a jet, it had been to stop a missile from firing at China…

The memory of their failure tasted sore in his mouth.

An elbow in his ribs effectively batted the memory away for him, bringing him back to the present and Leon grinning at him.

"See? I told you it was just a B.S.A.A. wives' tale!"

"Well, you crash enough things and people start talking," Piers said half jokingly, half seriously as he tried to shake the tight, nervous feeling he had been flying with for the past several hours. "This isn't a layover or something, is it? We're actually here?"

"Yes, Agent Nivans," said a female voice from behind him, "We're actually here."

Piers saw Leon grin widely and look at something past his shoulder before he turned around to find a woman with light coffee colored skin standing behind him. Her pencil-neck skirt and professional looking suit added crisp, dark grey lines to her body that accentuated her curves despite the very no-nonsense expression she wore. She held an iPad in her hands and had the little tablet tucked to her chest as she gave the B.S.A.A. agent a curt nod in greeting.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Special Agent Nivans," she said.

"Piers!" Leon said as he clapped the younger man firmly on his right shoulder, "This is the gem of the Secret Service, F.O.S. Agent Ingrid Hunnigan. And Hunnigan! Is that the scarf I got you?"

Piers gave Leon a confused sideways look. He knew the man often worked alone, but the speed with which he jumped from topic to topic threw him off balance. Eager for company, it would seem.

Hunnigan's cheeks darkened very slightly as she delicately adjusted the dark, ashy blue scarf wrapped neatly around her neck. She cleared her throat and turned her eyes to her iPad as she began to swipe at it with quick, efficient fingers.

"Astute as always, Leon. Now let's get back to the matter at hand - the data chip and the kidnapped B.S.A.A. Captain."

Piers stepped out of the hand that was on his shoulder and took another step towards the woman. "An F.O.S. Agent? If you specialize in field support, why are you out here in the field?"

"I'm not." At the young man's unamused face, she gestured to Leon. "Leon, if you'd please?"

"Not a problem." That was when Piers caught a bit of motion out of the corner of his eye and saw the older agent shake a small, glowing cube he was holding lightly in his hand. Piers hadn't noticed him take it out or activate it, which left him with an eerie mixture of awe and unease in his stomach.

When Leon shook the little device, the once crystal clear image of Hunnigan glitched slightly, and a bit of static like a TV screen tuning into a better frequency rolled over her form until the cube settled and she returned to HD clarity once more.

Piers felt his jaw drop. Leon grinned.

"I get the neatest toys, don't I?"

"Boys, focus," Hunnigan said. "We've got a Captain and a chip to find."

"Do you know where Wesker took them?" Piers asked.

"I'm sorry, Agent Nivans, but no. We lost their chopper somewhere along the Maryland/Virginia state line. We haven't been able to catch even a trace of their trail since. We did follow the tracking beacon that was in Captain Redfield's knife, but we found the knife buried down to the hilt in a tree this morning with no sign of the chopper anywhere."

"Then why did we fly here if we don't have a lead?"

"To recruit."

"We could recruit anywhere," Piers said, "We could've done it in Washington, DC!"

She was about to open her mouth to continue with her mission brief when her eyes focused on something beyond Piers and Leon. Both men turned around to see a small group of B.S.A.A. soldiers jogging down the tarmac towards them. The one in the lead waved at them as he jogged, and when he came to a halt in front of them, he already had his hand extended.

"Captain Stone, it's been a long time!" Leon said as he clasped the man's hand in a strong grip. When he let go, he leaned back and gestured to Piers. "Josh, this is Special Agent Piers Nivans. He's apart of Chris' team."

"One of Redfield's, huh?" Josh said with a large, gleaming smile as he shook Piers' hand. "I owe that man more than just my life. We'll do everything we can to ensure he comes home safe."

"I-" Piers said, "That's good to hear."

"Piers," Leon said, "This is Joshua Stone, Co-Branch Commander of the B.S.A.A.'s African branch. I'm sure you've heard of him. He's going to help us find Chris and the chip."

After greeting Hunnigan, Josh then turned back to Leon. "The Branch Commander extends her apologies for not being her to greet you on the tarmac. She's taking care of a small matter at the moment. She'll meet us in the conference room. We'll wait there while the boys fuel up your ride."

"Thanks, Josh."

The soldiers that Josh had brought with him then walked towards the jet, moving with a practiced efficiency as Josh and Leon walked towards the base. Piers didn't immediately follow, his face troubled.

"Something wrong, Agent Nivans?" Hunnigan said, startling him. He had expected her hologram to follow Leon. Evidently the cube had good range.

"We could have just as easily built up a team in Washington, DC. It's not that I don't appreciate their help, but Africa wasn't exactly close."

Hunnigan smiled. "Because DC doesn't have Sheva Alomar, that's why."

Piers' blood stilled. He knew that name just as well as he knew Chris' or any of the other heroes of the B.S.A.A. It excited him to know he would get to meet the woman who had fought beside Chris against Wesker just as much as it terrified him. He didn't know if he could bear to see another one of his heroes for what they really were - human.

But he shoved the selfish thought into a small box in his mind and forced himself to walk forward. Everyone had a right to be human.

* * *

 

It was hard not to get lost in the feeling of being young again. His knees didn't hurt anymore. Sounds that he didn't know had been dull were suddenly so rich. Color was sharp, the air was easier to inhale. Shortly after waking from his third blackout in the kitchen, Wesker sent Chris to an employee/lab locker room to get cleaned up. It was the first thing Chris could claim he was grateful for‒the fact that Wesker hadn't taken it upon himself to clean him while he was in his catatonic-robot state or whatever the hell it was.

His time in the shower had been his first chance to actually pause and reflect upon all the changes the virus had done to him. His toned and slenderer form; his aches, or more accurately, his lack thereof; and his appearance. His face was younger, the wrinkles he had gained from the hard years of his life wiped away as if someone had smoothed them out of his skin with their thumb. And his eyes. He was glad they weren't red and surprised they weren't cat-slitted, but the unearthly way with which they actually glowed unsettled him; a blazing glacial blue that startled him every time he caught them in the mirror. So bright it hurt to look at them.

Then again, a lot of things were too bright to look at. A side effect of the change, Wesker had said. The sensitivity would pass. It would likely be the last real pain he ever felt. That sensitivity, however, was why the blond had picked the location he had picked for the training exercises: dull, dim, dark, dank catacombs nestled somewhere within the belly of the facility Wesker had spirited him away to. A part of him was grateful for it‒it didn't hurt down here in the dark. But another part of him was unsettled by it. The dark was wrong. As the dark did for all things, it made him hyperaware and reliant on his instincts. But his instincts had changed.

He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he tried to shake off another wave of foreign impulses. It was like a second heartbeat within him, pulsing and ever-present. If he didn't concentrate, the feelings would catch him off guard here in the dark, sliding through the stone of his mental walls like water. It wasn't as though there was a voice demanding murder in his head. The urges were far more subtle than that. They did not demand blood, they demanded acknowledgment. They demanded he listened, because his way was obsolete. One second he'd be thinking about finding a way to escape, and the next…

He pressed his fingertips to the skin of the water lightly, just barely breaking the surface pressure. He could feel movement in the calf-deep water of the catacombs. Some of it belonged to the pitter patter of the water falling from the ceiling. The sound of their descent sang a concerto through the narrow halls. But some - some did not. Some belonged to the pathetic creatures that Wesker kept here for God knew what reason. He could feel the way they passed through the water, claws scrapping the cement bottom and furrowing out long, deep grooves. They gargled sickly when they breathed; imperfect hosts that succumbed to imperfect viruses. If he closed his eyes and spread out his awareness, he could tell exactly how many there were and where they were just by the slight way the water moved across his legs, and‒

‒Chris snapped back with a horrible gasping flinch and water sloshed loudly around him in response. His chest heaved and he could hear his younger heartbeat thrashing frantically within his ribcage.

"If you keep fighting it, you'll never find me, Christopher," Wesker said simply.

Chris put two shaky fingers to the device in his ear and growled, "I can find you just fine without the virus. I've been doing it for years."

"Yes, that's why I've been waiting here for hours. Because your human instincts are so much more efficient than those of my virus. I apologize for not seeing it myself sooner."

The B.S.A.A. agent scowled, his eyes darting to an opening on his upper left when the sound of sloshing water began to emit from that direction. He lowered his voice.

"I feel so bad for holding up your schedule," he said flatly.

"Hmph. Whether you choose out of your own free will or necessity, it will be the instincts that I gave you that bring you to me. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

And then the line disconnected again. Chris muttered a curse at the man and raised his hands into a loose defensive gesture as he neared the entrance the sound had come from. With the virus' instincts, everything felt one hundred times more intense. Now that he had shoved them back and Wesker had left him in silence, Chris noticed the way that everything seemed darker, muted in comparison to just a moment ago.

When he finally turned around the corner, nothing was there, but he didn't lower his hands.

The catacombs were extensive. Whatever was down here might have gone another direction, but he'd run into it sooner or later. Something whispered innocently in his mind‒if he gave in for just a moment, he'd know where the creature went. Just like that, he would feel it. It would be easy to cross that line quickly and then hop back, but how many times could he do that before the line turned into a blurry mess. Chris clenched his jaw.

Wesker was right. If he didn't find a way out of here, he could be stuck down here for days. With the amount of energy the virus had been consuming in this early stage of his growth, how long did he have before it put him into another catatonic state and made him cross the line? Would it even wait to find Wesker before it tried to eat something. Chris was pretty sure he wouldn't find any steak down here.

The slight clench his hands made from the mere thought of what could happen caused the leather combat gloves Wesker had provided to squeal minutely. The creature that lunged at him in response, Chris was ready for. He dodged beneath the swipe of huge claws and rolled to the side with a nimbleness he hadn't had in years. The movement in turn drenched the solid black combat fatigues he had been given to replace his tattered B.S.A.A. uniform, but he didn't notice the water's added weight.

The creature stared at him with dumb, beady eyes. Chris' heart went from professional to still in a matter of moments as his eyes adjusted and he recognized what had lunged at him. It was a Napad. Like Ben, Carl, and Andy. Like Finn.

He instinctually raised his hands as if aiming a rifle, his human faculties overriding his animalistic ones as the beast stretched its arms out and howled into the catacombs. Answering howls began to rise up from the area, the pressure of their song dislodging loose stone from the ceiling and making the water quiver in its wake.

But Chris stared too long, just as he had when it had been Finn rushing him. The Napad dug its two large hands into the ground and forcefully threw itself toward him before he even realized that the gun he was aiming was just air. And there was no Piers here to cover him this time. No Sheva. No Jill...

Time slowed. Waves pressed against his knees, steadily getting more forceful as the brute tore up the concrete floor to get to him. The sound of its claws ripping through the ground grew dull in his ears as he focused his senses on the Napad's movements. He noted the way it moved, how quickly it was moving, how much space it was taking in the narrow tunnel, and calculated on when the opportune moment would be to slide past the charging beast and run for it.

He lowered his body to a runner's crouch, preparing himself as the creature raised one eerily familiar clawed appendage into the air to strike him with. A blow with that much momentum behind it would surely stun him back into another coma, and Chris had no intention of letting that happen. But he couldn't fight the thing without a weapon, either. As the creature leaned to the right to raise its arm even higher, never slowing in its rush, Chris tensed his muscles to spring forward.

He had timed it perfectly, he was going to make it. He'd slide right under the creature's arm and run away. But before he could even start to run, a second set of claws wrapped around his head and neck, and threw him through a wall. The catacombs shook as he barreled through a non-supporting wall and became embedded in another. A spider web of wet, splintery cracks spread out from him in the concrete in all directions by at least three feet, stone crumbling where the structure was at its weakest. The clenching fear when he realized that being thrown through one wall and into another didn't hurt was quickly overshadowed when he realized that there were not just two Napads. There were many. They were freaking Legion.

As Chris tumbled down from the wall to his knees‒stunned‒he saw more hulking figures looming in the shadows of the new tunnel he had been thrown into, and they were shambling ever steadily nearer. He counted at least ten, with a few shapes further in each direction that could be the telltale sign of more. The one that had thrown him slammed its fists at the hole it had made in the wall until the hole was a gaping entrance in the stonework. It howled and all the others answered.

Even in Edonia, there had never been this many. Close, but then he had had his men beside him (for most of it), a gun in his hands, and open space to work with.

Now he was alone, weaponless, and in a series of narrow, uncooperative catacombs about twice as wide as he was tall.

He rolled to his feet liquidly and lowered himself into another crouch. His eyes darted between all the bulky bodies as they slowly advanced toward him, forming a hard, armored wall of muscles and exoskeleton around him. And then they stopped, each one about two arm lengths away and breathing heavily over top of him as they loomed there, dumb and menacing. His own breathing was louder.

"You can choose to willingly utilize the virus or your body will make the decision for you. Either way, the result is the same," Wesker said suddenly in his ear.

"You could call them off," Chris suggested in a low voice. Not low enough, though. It agitated the Napads and they collectively began to take another step forward, eyes glistening and lungs rasping beneath their armor. Chris winced.

"I can't, actually. They are not of my virus. I have just about as much control over them as you do. They are imperfect creatures to be extinguished, which you could do with ease even against so many if you would just accept the inevitable."

"And if I don't?"

"Inevitable by any other name is still as certain and unavoidable, Christopher. It's time you learned that."

And then the static was gone again. Chris cursed in frustration, a hard, huffing word that was carried out with his breath and a jerk from his body. It triggered them, hard bodies lunging at him from all angles. Chris returned the gesture, rushing the one nearest him and throwing it into the wall with a force only moderately stronger than what he was used to. He was on top of it, hands clawing at the exoskeleton, making the thing howl when a fleshy claw hammered him in the ribs and sent him flying into another Napad. The creature's armor was definitely harder than the wall he had crashed through, but still he felt no pain.

He fought wildly, knuckles splitting with the force of his punches against the serrated armor only to heal seconds after pulling away. A burning feeling licked at his stomach, demanding nourishment, but still he fought. There, down in the darkness amongst the writhing, infected bodies of men and women past, Chris fought with every last inch of himself.

And then some more.


	10. Small Gestures

He couldn't remember when he passed out, but it must have happened, because Chris was back in the abyss. It was different now, more evolved, Chris noticed. More complete. The last time it had been miles and miles of nothing in every direction. The absence of light, ground, and air - thick and oppressive.

Now it was like standing on still water; still endlessly expansive, but he could tell what was up and what was down. Chris took one exhausted step forward and the water's surface rippled lightly out into the distance in response. Despite the fact that it was still so dark, he could see his reflection when he looked down upon the water-like surface he was standing on.

He was 40 again, he noted with surprise. His eyes were human once more - dull and burdened with heavy bags, but they were his eyes. His human eyes. As he raised one hand to them to make sure it wasn't a trick, he changed course and gently touched the weeping gash on his cheek that spread from the corner of his mouth all the way up to his earlobe. He hissed very lightly when his fingers finally made contact. Blood had crusted into his stubble and pulled at the wound's edge's irritatingly. Noticing one pain was like opening the floodgates to notice them all, and suddenly Chris found himself taking one staggering step forward, his body hunched over in pain as the damage in his side made itself known.

One look down confirmed that the situation was serious. His entire side was a huge mass of red that had crusted from his right abdominals down to the waist and pocket of his uniform. Trembling fingers pressed lightly into the punctures and torn flesh he found gouged out there, and more blood dribbled warmly over the questing digits as he did so. Realizing the wound was there made a large bubble of iron pool in his mouth. He gagged weakly.

"So stubborn," a familiar voice said from behind him, "What good does that quality really do you, Chris?"

He turned around, his eyes narrow as he regarded his 25-year-old self speaking with his face and Wesker's voice. The doppelganger was wearing a pair of dark army fatigues, the same thing Chris himself was wearing - clothes given to him by Wesker. The fatigues fit Chris just fine, but they looked like they belonged on his double. He frowned, his breath a wet rasp beneath his breath as he growled at the creature.

"None of your damn business," Chris answered.

His younger self seemed calmer than the mad creature that had tormented him in the abyss before. Chris winced as pain fluttered in his chest remembering their last meeting. The creature caught the expression and tilted his head, his face unimpressed, and said, "But it is my business. You are my Host."

"…You're the virus."

The virus gave him a considering gaze. "In a manner of speaking… The word you have used to define me with is suitable, although limited."

Chris' side let out a knee-trembling throb, but he did his best not to show it as he glared the creature down. The virus' face twitched ever so slightly as it regarded him.

"I blacked out."

"Hardly surprising. You should be dead."

"Then let me die."

The virus let out a little huff and raised its chin a bit. Blood oozed between Chris' fingers.

"What?" Chris asked through clenched teeth.

"That's a little ungrateful, don't you think?"

"I didn't ask for this," Chris said simply.

"Neither did I."

Chris let out a disgusted breath. "I really don't think it's the same."

"Regardless, I do not want to die," The virus said as it began to walk closer, "Therefore, you cannot die."

Chris took a step back, but the virus just kept walking closer.

"Stop."

And then the virus tore his hand from his wound and dug its own fingers in instead. Chris swallowed his scream before it could escape, and the sound died pathetically in his throat. The virus' fingers clenched, then it felt as though they were melting into the wound.

"When you wake, get up, take two lefts and you'll reach an intersection of tunnels. Take the right-most path and you'll find a ruined section in the wall halfway through the tunnel. Behind that wall are the stairs up to where the First is." The virus paused, his head tilted as if hearing something from far off, then continued. "When you get to the top of the stairs, just wait for a minute. You'll understand why when you do it."

Chris' hands scrabbled to push the virus away, but the creature wouldn't budge. His side felt like it was on fire.

"Why are you telling me this?" He barely managed to ask.

"A gesture of good faith," the virus said into his ear. "I'm not your enemy, Chris."

And then Chris was awake, waist deep in water and gore with his back pressed against a ruined tunnel wall. He inhaled deep gulps of air as the pain from his side receded and eventually became a light ache. With trembling hands, Chris pushed the tattered remains of his army fatigues out of the way to see the muscled wall of his stomach had healed. The skin had sewn shut and become a dark purple blossom of color on his abdominals, but even now he could see the color fading. Healing.

He thrust his head back against the tunnel wall and tried to collect his thoughts. Exhaustion washed over him in a wave, and before he even realized what he was doing, he had one hand in the water. He didn't have to force it to happen - the senses the virus had given him were always right there, just waiting under the surface of his skin. It took more energy to ignore them than it did to use them, really. At the moment, he was too tired to even feel ashamed of utilizing them as he took stock of his surroundings.

There were no more infected currently in the tunnels, other than the gored remains of the ones he - or the virus - had killed moments ago. And that's all he needed to know, he told himself as he forcefully slammed the valve of powers shut in his mind. Even after just using the skill for a second, turning it off felt like he was blindfolding himself. The implications made him feel uneasy.

Something wet, dead, and fleshy bobbed up against his hand as it listlessly floated in the water, reminding him he couldn't stay. The death would attract things, and even if there were no other creatures down there right now, it didn't mean Wesker wouldn't add more at any second. Although his muscles screamed with fatigue, he forced himself up.

"I thought perfection would feel a bit better than this," Chris groused as his stomach boiled with need within him. He was starving - but he cut that thought off before acknowledging the fact made his hunger worse. He focused his thoughts on putting one step in front of another, again and again. Before he could even realize that he was obeying the virus' instruction, he found himself outside the ruined wall it had spoken of. He didn't know how long it had taken him to get there - a fact that made his insides cold, the threat of a relapse back into a coma clenching at his guts - but he did pause long enough to make sure it was something he wanted to do.

Why should he trust the virus, he thought. And with a grimace, he realized that it was because the virus was his best bet. Alone, he had no clearer an idea of where he should go than the virus had given. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep functioning as Chris Redfield without nutrients, and he'd rather take these steps as himself than whatever he became whenever he entered one of his comas. There was nothing to say that this wasn't a trap and that more B.O.W.s didn't await him at the top of the stairs, but Chris just had to rely on the virus' word. A gesture of good faith.

After all, if the virus wanted Chris to fall back into a coma so it could steal the reigns, it could have just held it's tongue and waited for the man to pass out. It wouldn't have taken much longer, the BSAA agent conceded to himself as he slowly began the trek up the stairs. His soaked boots left muddy, red footprints in their wake as he climbed. He could feel a sense of anticipation just under his skin. As if the virus was right there, just itching to say you need to hurry up, but wouldn't. It took the steps a little slower then, just to spite the feeling. Little liberties.

As he climbed the stairs, a feeling began to reemerge at the back of his neck. It had never really left, Chris realized, but the closer he got to the top of the stairs, the stronger it grew. A familiar feeling, one he had felt a handful of times before. At the Arklay Mountains, at Rockford Island and the Spencer Estate, in Africa, on the roof just before he had been taken‒

His line of thinking came to an abrupt stop as he stilled all of his senses to listen to noises he could hear from above. He was close to the top of the stairs, the exit blocked by a trap door, and beyond it, he could hear Wesker talking.

"‒They're there now? Excellent, it's just as I predicted." A pause. "Hmm. No, no, we'll use the others, too. They'll serve as a good distraction at least." Another pause. "No, I think it's best we have you keep your distance while he is still so…young. In the meantime, send our friends in Africa our little gift to get the ball rolling. Once you're done, contact me on this number." And then the phone ended with a soft click. Not a Smartphone, then, Chris noted as he took the last few steps out of the stairwell and opened the trap doors.

The stairs led to an observation room, and while Chris had not seen any cameras while he had been below, the wall was littered with monitors displaying footage from all over the tunnels. Wesker was watching the whole time. He idly wondered how many times he might have passed the staircase, and if his missing them had ever frustrated the blond man. He hoped it had.

And in the middle of the room was Wesker, half of him facing the monitors and half of him facing Chris. He pocketed the small black flip phone, then turned to regard the haggard man.

"Certainly took your time, didn't you, Christopher? I see we've taken to eavesdropping now."

The BSAA agent gestured to the monitors behind the blond. "You knew I was coming, you could have dropped the call."

The fact was that Wesker didn't care if Chris heard his conversation and they both knew it. He was 100% sure that Chris would never be able to get into a situation where he could put that information into use, and even if he could get away, that he would even be able to do it. His confidence made the BSAA agent's blood boil, but it was true all the same. Chris had no way of using the information he just heard. It was a tiny victory, and the virus knew it. It had been a small gesture of good faith.

At least he wouldn't be wasting his question now.

"Very good. You're catching on."

"I made it here conscious, Wesker. Time to make good on your deal. I passed your test, now you answer one question."

"Very well. Ask away."

"Why me?"

Wesker raised his eyebrows. "I would have thought you'd go for 'how do I save Jill' or 'where is the self-destruct button for this compound'."

"Feel free to tell me any of those things, too."

"That's a rather selfish question you're asking," Wesker said as he took one step forward. "I'm so proud."

What question he would ask had been something Chris had been considering since the moment Wesker mentioned that he would give him a prize for completing the man's tests. Meet his expectations and get one question answered. So he chose his question carefully. The BSAA was in Africa, that much was evident by Wesker's phone call, as well as the fact that the blond had something planned for them. But Chris had trained with, and in a lot of cases actually trained the men and women of the BSAA. He trusted in their ability to handle whatever shit Wesker threw their way, so no, he wouldn't waste his question on their status. He believed in them. Even if he knew exactly what was about to befall them, the information would do him no good - he couldn't do anything with it from here. As for Jill, she was either being forced against her will to betray the BSAA or, as much as it pained Chris to think it, she was willingly working for Wesker. Either way, it would eventually come to the light. The chip had information vital to the BSAA, so he knew why Wesker took it. Asking where it was would be useless - Wesker would just move it and that's if Chris could even reach it anyway.

This question stood to gain the most information, so that was the one he picked.

"Answer the question," Chris pressed.

"First, we're going to go to the kitchen," Wesker said, and held up one hand to silence the agent when he opened his mouth to protest. "Unless you'd rather pass out halfway through the one time I will answer this question?"

At Chris' scowl, Wesker smiled.

"That's what I thought."


	11. Men to Die For

Chapter 11: Men to Die For

The South African Branch of the B.S.A.A. was very beautiful, and Piers couldn't help but feel a bit jealous when he compared it to the branch headquarters he and Chris primarily worked out of. Their building - the original building the organization was born out of - was of moderate size and overall, it didn't look very impressive. That wasn't to say it wasn't one hell of a building, because it was. It served its purpose and was basically impregnable. The word 'basically' whispered sadistically through Piers' head as he cringed. That wasn't quite right anymore - Jill Valentine and Albert Wesker had seen to that. Piers shoved the thought away and continued to look through the glass walls of the conference room that hung high above the lobby below. The entire front of the building was glass windows from floor to ceiling - bulletproof and sturdy. The lobby area, towering with its arching ceiling and carved deep into the complex, was the only part of the building that seemed fragile. If any part of the base was insecure, it was here. But take one step in any direction past the lobby and an intruder would find themselves face to face with a complex series of retinal scanners, fingerprint identification pads, card keys, and various other security measures - each door more intricately locked than the last.

Leon whistled from his spot at the conference room window, catching Piers' attention from where the young man sat at the large, glossy table.

"This is the fifth most secure facility I've ever seen," he said as he looked around with an appreciative smile. "Minus the lobby. Glass? Really?"

Josh raised an amused eyebrow at him from his seat across the table. "Fifth?"

"What? I've been a lot of places."

"I don't doubt it," Josh said with a wry smirk. "I hear you Americans like to get around."

Leon shrugged and returned the man a smirk of his own in the reflection of the window. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Stone."

Josh let out a booming laugh and his men chuckled lightly with him. Piers didn't.

The soft staccato of the young man's fingertips upon the tabletop of the conference room was ridiculously deafening in Leon's opinion. Try as he may, he could not ignore the steady canter of it as the young B.O.W. beat an anxious rhythm into room, interrupting the warm laughter with his uneasiness. Josh looked over at the flurry of fingers and gave Piers an apologetic look.

"I apologize again for the wait. Branch Commander Alomar was unexpectedly tied up with another matter. She'll be here shortly."

Suddenly torn from his brooding thoughts, Piers had the good grace to look slightly ashamed as he forcefully stilled his hand and let it slide silently into his lap. Leon smoothed the situation over easily.

"She's a busy woman, Josh. It's to be expected."

"I know, but… Please do not think for a moment that we are not taking this matter seriously." His eyes were directly on Piers as he said this, his face stern. "Chris Redfield is a good man. He's got a lot of enemies, but he's got a lot of friends, too. And a lot of people in his debt, myself included. We'll do everything within our power to help you find him."

Unwilling or unable to say anything in response, the young B.S.A.A. agent just gave the man a small nod of gratitude before looking out into the lobby, eyes keenly searching for any glimpse of Sheva Alomar. It wasn't long before his knee resumed where his fingers had left off and set his chair into a soft, steady squeak as the limb bobbed anxiously.

"Where are we off to after this, Leon?" Josh asked. Leon turned from the window to regard him.

"Not quite sure. Hunnigan is the one pulling our team roster together, so she'll let me know when we're done here. But if she's thinking what I think she's thinking, our next stop is going to be the Eastern Slav Republic. Barring any sudden developments, of course."

Piers frowned.

"Why there?"

"An expert on viral influence lives there. He's got firsthand experience that could really benefit us, if I can convince him to get off of his butt and out of the classroom. It's iffy."

"Why would we need-?"

Before Piers could finish his question, a small device in the middle of the conference room table began to beep and flash, drawing everyone's attention.

"That must be Sheva now," Josh said as he leaned across the table to activate the device. With a small touch of the flashing button, the circular device lit up and a small hologram began to hover just above it, displaying another B.S.A.A. agent's face from the African Branch. From the number of people passing by him in the background and what they were wearing, Piers assumed the man was somewhere in this very facility.

And he looked the way Piers felt. Anxious, out of time, and running low on options.

"Agent Barrow?" Josh asked and looked around as if the man were supposed to be among them. He then directed his question from the hologram to another agent within the room. "Why isn't he up here? He's a part of your squad, isn't he?"

The commanding officer of the squad took a step forward and gave the hologram a harsh frown. "Yes, sir, he's supposed to be up here."

"Co...Commander Stone," the agent said, his teeth rattling audibly. Josh frowned and leaned forward a little more. The agent's face was visibly perspiring, small rivulets running down his jaw line and into the neck of his uniform. He blinked rapidly whenever his sweat found its way into his eyes. "I- I managed to ignore the-aaah," he groaned.

"Agent Barrow, what's going on?"

At the mention of his name, the man in the hologram flinched, his face torn as he bit hard on his cheek. A few passersby were beginning to take notice of him now, some even going so far as to stop to look at him, their concerned hands outstretched. The agent waved them off agitatedly. Piers studied the man's face closely.

"I- I'm so sorry, sir," the man managed to ground out through his teeth as his neck twitched to the side unnaturally again. "I managed to ignore the order to follow you up there, but - nngh - I can't... It hurts."

He lifted one horribly shaking hand up to wipe at his brow. Piers found himself also leaning closer to the hologram as his sharp eyes caught a glimmer of movement in the pained agent's face. He squinted, unsure if he saw what he thought he saw, but sure enough, something small wiggled and glided underneath the skin of the man's face just a second later. The young B.O.W. reared back, eyes wide. No one else noticed.

"What's wrong?" Josh tried again as he rose to a full stand. "Answer me, Barrow!"

The young man let out a shuttering gasp. "Please, just- seal the door. D-don't come outside."

"What-?"

"Just promise me," the agent said, throat ragged as he jerkily lifted his other hand towards his neck as if his arm were hundreds of pounds heavier than it actually was. And in Agent Barrow's hand, a small, wickedly familiar ball of glittering needles waited patiently for its owner to strike. A few people in the background let out shouts as they recognized the little weapon, hands outstretched as they raced forward. Piers felt the world tip obscenely beneath his feet, his heart shuddering in his chest.

" _Not again_ …"

Flashes of memory whispered sadistically into his ear. A steel gate sliding down between him and his squad like a guillotine's blade. Finn's large eyes. The men's bravery as they started searching for a way out. The innocent way the little ball had arced into the room as delicate, feminine fingers tossed it at his companions. The way it shot out hundreds of needles in a second. The melting bodies, hands grasping, lungs screaming as they died. He leapt up from his seat to the window, unaware of the B.S.A.A. agents beside him that ran for a control panel beside the lush conference room door.

In the lobby below, he could see Agent Barrow. There, in the middle of a hundred boiled bodies and running innocents - lab coats flailing, visitors screaming, soldiers taking aim - the African agent lifted his sun darkened hand into the air and pressed a small button. Seeing the needles disperse from just a few feet away had been horrifying. Watching them deploy from high up in an observation room made it feel downright surreal, Piers thought as he watched tiny little slivers of light dart out of the man's palm, some striking nothing, but most of them hitting solid flesh.

Leon slammed his fist against the window, face snarling wordless fragments of rage, but Piers' couldn't hear it. The action, the raw suddenness of it, actually made him flinch. He looked at the government agent with wide eyes, everything moving slowly around him as he turned to see the lights in the conference room begin to flash red and a fine mist of clean air spurt out of the creases of the door. They were sealing the room.

A hand on his shoulder shook him for just a second before a yelp pierced his ears and brought all the sound in the area rushing back through his head in a wave. He had shocked Leon.

The man in question was gently holding his hand, eying him cautiously as he spoke to him like a spooked horse. Piers noted that the man did not try to touch him again. "Piers, you need to snap out of it!"

"I-" He returned his gaze back down to the floor below. Bodies writhed in agony, flesh burning and melting into sloppy piles as the resultant goop trapped its victims within. Finn's smile was seared into the backs of his eyes. His options were to watch these people die or be reminded of his face if he tried to hide behind his eyelids. Both burned to look at.

"Piers!" Something was shoved into his chest. He tore his gaze away to see Leon wrap his dazed hands forcefully around a gasmask. "Put this on!"

He watched as Leon put on his own mask before Piers numbly followed the agent's movements and put on his as well. The mask was heavy and smothering. He immediately desired to remove it, but Leon grabbed his wrist before he could.

"I don't care what sort of B.O.W. you are, you are not removing this mask. Understood?" the older man growled, and then he was gone - hand pulling out the magnum from his thigh holster as he addressed the rest of the room. "Does everyone have a mask on?"

"Yes, we're ready to go," Josh responded as he motioned for one of his squad members to send in a report over the radio. With another quick flick of his wrist, he motioned for the agents by the window to wait, and then he looked at Leon. "You sure about this?"

"We're kind of running short on options, if you haven't noticed," Leon said as he took two large steps to the window - gun raised - and pulled the trigger. But the glass was bullet proof, trapping the shot in a neat network of spider-web cracks. "Alright, kid. Show time," he said and pointed to the cracks, "Show us what you've got, Sparks."

Piers blinked at him, caught between  _what the hell did you just call me_ and  _you don't understand, it's happening again_. These thoughts marched a wave of terror and numbness through his mind until what Leon said finally bled through the icy terror of Edonia. He had been given an order.

Orders were to be obeyed.

"Right," Piers said, collecting himself as he stepped forward. "Everyone get ready."

And this, for as much as he hated to admit it - this he knew how to do. Fist clenched, the young B.O.W. opened the flood gates of every negative trigger emotion that he had been bottling since the B.S.A.A. had been betrayed by Jill on that rooftop. Since that gelatinous creature had dared to clench its substance-less fingers around the Captain back under the sea. Since Edonia. Since Finn.

He could see the writhing masses below as lightning and electricity began to leap into a steady dance around his arm. At the core of the infected horde, he could see what remained of Agent Barrow. He was screaming the loudest, skin sopping off of him in large, squishy pieces as huge protruding lumps began to form all over his body.

Piers had died so that this wouldn't happen; infected himself to protect the world from this very thing. And now, arm raised and voice howling bitterly through his torn up throat, Piers released several B.S.A.A. building sections worth of electricity from the facility into a clean, narrow arc at the glass. It shattered immediately, the heat of the attack even going so far as to melt large sections of it and sent molten droplets to fall on the creatures below. It gored several of them.

When the power surge in his body finally ceased, it felt like the recoil of a gun much larger than he had ever handled - sending him scuttling back several steps to regain his balance. Although he could not see the carnage he had unleashed right away, he did see the explosive flash across his eyelids and heard the screams of several of the creatures below - mindlessly panicked and a great many fatally wounded. Panting, Piers opened his eyes to see Josh and the others rush forward, guns at the ready as they began to snipe the infected from above. It felt like centuries since he had been a part of a team, and now - standing behind these loyal B.S.A.A. men as they worked with him and did not fear his abilities - he felt a sense of freedom that had been stripped from him the moment he had willingly entered quarantine after surviving China.

"Nice work, Piers!" Leon howled over the gun fire, his voice distorted by his gasmask. "Josh, you and your men stay up here and cover us."

"You can't seriously plan to go down there," Josh said, looking up a moment to focus on the American agent.

Leon moved to stand beside him and pointed at the creature that Barrow had become - all sagging, pussy skin and large, deformed sacs oozing out a steady stream of toxic gas onto the innocents around it. "You see that thing? If we don't get down there and kill it before it gets out of the lobby, you won't just have a small sector breach on your hands. You'll have a full on infection that'll spread across Africa faster than the B.S.A.A. can cope with it."

"How do you know that?"

"What the hell do you think happened to China? The gas from that bomb was likely harvested from that very creature," he said, then grabbed Josh's forearm. "I need you to trust me. I've handled this thing before. Twice."

With a determined grimace, Josh quickly reloaded his gun and said, "If you think you're going down there alone to protect  _my_ country, you're mistaken, friend."

Leon grinned. "Then you better keep up."

"Carver, keep the men here and cover us," Josh ordered one of his men, "We're going down. Keep trying to get in contact with Sheva. Let me know when you've got her on the line, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Carver bellowed between spurts of gunfire, and Piers could hear the agonized moan of another felled creature from below.

"I'm going to blow the airlock," Leon said, "Everyone secure your masks!"

"Clear!"

The gunshot that followed was as derisive as it was final, Piers thought as the bullet pierced the airlock and created a large blossom of hissing cracks in the glass. Another bullet, then another - but still the glass held strong.

"Sparks," Leon said, drawing Piers' attention. "How about an encore?"

Piers snorted and took a step forward.

"That name better not become permanent," he growled.

Calling up the lighting was harder this time since his previous shot had absorbed a lot of the energy nearby. He had to draw from himself and his willpower to accumulate a shot with enough oomph to do the job, but with one well placed arc of electricity, the glass came falling down in a cascade of jagged edges and shattered pieces. A hand clapped him on the soldier and gave him a comradely shake. Static curled around the owner's fingers, but Josh ignored it.

"Quite an arm you've got there," Josh said. "Glad you're on our side. Now let's move!"

As the three men stormed out of the room, gas welling up at their ankles, Piers felt a sense of acceptance fill him. Although he had sensed some hesitation in Josh's words, his willingness to trust Piers was still there. Maybe because Piers was one of Chris' or maybe because Leon was personally vouching for him - but actually being seen as the B.S.A.A. agent he had died as and not the creature that had brought him back to life filled Piers with a breath of life in his lungs he hadn't realized was missing. He stormed after Josh and Leon with a new found vigor, hand outstretched as he casually allowed his body to absorb energy from various pieces of technology along the way. Without the heavy lettered word of monster hanging around his neck like a noose, he followed his commanding officers to the stairwell and down into the fray.

If he was going to be a monster, he'd be a monster for them. He'd be damned if he was going to lose another team. The captain included.

"So you better hang in there, captain," Piers whispered beneath his breath as they tore down the stairs and dove head long into the fight. "I'm going to hold you to your promise."

Gunfire played a fiery concerto for their entrance as the men above covered them - mowing down a line of sharp teeth and needy hands before the creatures could even get close. These men, they were men to die for.


	12. Swallowed Whole

Leon ran past a seizing victim writhing on the ground only to hear one of the men from the conference room let loose a shot -- sparing them the agony of becoming one of the infected. He tried not to linger on it too long. It brought back bad memories of grabbing hands and naïve days.

 With a quick hand gesture, he motioned for the two men that had come into the lobby with him to stand their ground. The gas mask he wore made it hard to communicate effectively, but he tried anyway.

 "That son-of-a-bitch is called a Lepotitsa. You already know what it does, so don't get close. As long as other survivors are in here, it'll concentrate on infecting them, so we need to put this thing down before it kills off everyone and before it gets a chance to see us coming!" Leon pointed to a far corner. "Josh, give us some cover fire from over there. Don't let it get too close. Piers, you're with me. We're going to get it a nice round of bullets as close as we can manage, understand?"

 "On it!" Josh said as he jogged across the lobby, letting out a quick bark of gunfire here or there when greedy hands strayed too close. Bodies littered the lobby, making it hard for Leon to find good enough footing to do much more than a light jog. Anything faster and he found himself stumbling on the blood slick floor and clustered bodies.

 "How close can we get?" Piers shouted over the sound of their stamping and the Lepotitsa's yowling. Innocents ran around in a frenzy, hands over their faces. A few soldiers remained, their guns aimed and firing. Leon tried to get their attention, but couldn't. He sighed and turned to look at the young B.O.W.

 "Not very close. The gas gets more concentrated the closer you get to the creature, and it's got a pretty big range when it coughs up that shit. The gas masks will let us get closer than we could without them, but I don't think it's wise to risk much closer than this."

 Magnum raised, Leon began to fire off precise shots at the creature with Piers hot on his tail. Each impact made the creature shudder, tumorous sacs flailing in outrage and agony. Distantly, he could hear Josh supplying cover fire, aiming at the knees and sending the creature crashing to the ground every time it strayed too close to them.

 It wasn't long before their coordinated effort had people shooting at the creature from all sides. Leon and Piers fired at the Lepotitsa's front, Josh at its back, a few surviving soldiers along its sides once they regained their wits and courage, and the men above covered them from the zombies. The creature howled; skin writhing in pulses and ripples as small spurts of noxious gas oozed from its wounds and the porous holes all over its body. Each shot made it curl a little further into the ground, the creature getting smaller and smaller as the onslaught took its toll.

 It was a spirit rallying sight to actually have a team to work with for once. Leon was too used to having to handle everything on his own, to count on himself for survival. Here, as various survivors all took up arms to protect one another, the government agent felt hope swell inside him. If they could do it here, maybe -- with the right training -- they could prepare everyone. If everyone just knew how to take these things down…

 With a few more sputters of gunfire, the Lepotitsa convulsed with one last death throe and oozed into a pile of acidic mush on the marble floor. Leon could hear the durable tiles crackling as the creature's remains boiled it away. It smelled horrible.

 Silence sat in the lobby with a pregnant pause as the men slowly lowered they weapons, chests heaving and hearts racing. Josh took a big breath of air, then let it all out with a victorious roar that his men quickly echoed. The lobby rang with the song of their triumph, and Leon found the feeling contagious as a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

 The Branch Co-Commander quickly crossed the space between him and his men, and gave Piers and Leon a hearty clap on each shoulder.

 "Now that, my friends, was victory in tragedy. We lost good friends, but we kept the infection to this room. And that -- well, that's something," Josh said with a sad smile.

 Leon turned to regard the man, his own smile a sad but understanding thing when he noticed the slow look of horror growing on the other man's face. Behind him, Piers drew his weapons -- his eyes hard as he watched the Lepotitsa's body harden on the floor, then begin to mutate and grow. Sick slurps of noise echoed in the large hall as the chrysalis bulged and expanded grotesquely.

 "You've got to be shitting me," Josh whispered as he side stepped around Leon and took aim. "Everyone, weapons at the ready!"

 The younger soldiers shuddered, arms tense as they hoped straining their muscles would make their hands tremble less. Leon opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but then the chrysalis was cracking, its hard shell splitting upon itself as one lanky, rotted hand reached its glistening fingers into the air.

 The soldiers readied to fire, but Leon held up one hand to still them.

 "You can't damage it while it's in that cocoon. You'll just waste your ammo."

 "Shit!" One of the other men whispered angrily.

 Another screech made a few of the men try to duck their ears towards their shoulders. It pierced the air with a sharpness that made Leon feel like his eardrums might start bleeding. The way the sound echoed in the large glass lobby didn't help.

 The exposed hand curled its gnarled fingers around one edge of the busted chrysalis while the other mirrored its brother limb on the other side. A bony elbow pushed the creature's torso into view, and Leon was grotesquely reminded of the video he had found with Helena in China.

 'Happy Birthday, Ada Wong'.

 The creature threw back its head, skin peeled down to the gum line and teeth glittering in the light as it opened its jowls and howled once more. A few of the men flinched violently.

 The Lepotitsa, its body far more tumorous and porous than before, then fell out of the cocoon with a sickening slap, juices rushing off of its plastic looking skin in goops.

 "Now!"

 Gunfire erupted like the sound of marching feet on a battlefield as bullets tore into the creature. Each shot made a plume of gas ooze from its jiggling body, and too late did Leon think to warn the soldiers that had not been in the conference room with them when the attack started -- the men who had no gas masks to protect themselves with.

 The cloud grew with each shot, and the young soldiers were too preoccupied with shooting to notice the noxious fumes creeping towards their feet. Leon tried to shout to them, and from the corner of his eye he could see it when Piers realized what was happening, too.

 "Run!" Piers yelled, but his voice did not carry over the crisp chattering of the guns.

 The young B.O.W. then lowered his weapon and tried to charge across the room to warn them -- physically, if he had to -- but Leon grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him back.

 "You go running across the room and you'll get caught up in the crossfire!"

 "Someone has to warn them!" Piers yelled.

 "It's already too late!" Leon shouted, then turned to Josh and signaled for him to move back. "We gotta move!"

 The look on Josh's face was one the agent had seen before. On himself. On Helena. On Chris. But Josh did what he had to. He backed up.

 Across the room, the noxious fumes reached the men one by one. The gunfire suddenly ceased as they abruptly began to clutch at their throats or uselessly wave the gas away. One staggered to their knees, then another as the metamorphosis began. Leon waited to see their skin pale, to see their noses and eyes begin to bleed; but it did not happen. Something was wrong. Something was different.

 Instead, they spontaneously combusted one at a time like clockwork. Something pained and wounded flashed across Piers' face like a ghost. Josh took a few stuttering steps forward, eyes wide in horror. Leon raised his weapon -- grimly aware that the fumes were more potent now. It wasn't making zombies anymore.

 It was singlehandedly creating an army of B.O.W.s.

 "Josh, tell your men upstairs to get ready," Leon said. It took Josh longer than it should have to acknowledge the request, but the agent only needed to repeat the man's name once to get him moving. In the end, he was a soldier. They'd mourn later.

 "Signet Group, when those things get out of their cocoons, release fire. Understood?" Josh said. If his voice broke, no one said anything about it. The pause on the other side of the line was lengthy, but the red laser dots that suddenly began to appear over each cocoon was answer enough.

 There was a hard swallow, and then -- "We're right behind you, sir."

 While the former men slowly burned their bodies away into hardened shells, arms outstretched for help, the Lepotitsa composed itself on the floor. Gas gathered at each bullet hole until the skin oozed back in upon itself and reformed. Once the bullet wounds closed, the creature let loose one last shudder and began to stand. All the while, it made a curious chittering sound that reminded Leon too much of laughter.

 But as suddenly as the chittering laughter started, it was drowned out beneath a furious crackling noise. The government agent looked over to his side to see Piers' firearm hanging uselessly at his side and his free hand sputtering sparks like a livewire.

 "No more," Piers snarled, eyes trained on the once human hands now clawing their way out of the shells. "No more good men die!"

 And just like that, the young B.O.W. had the Lepotitsa's full attention. It quirked its head at him one way, then another as it regarded him with sentient caution. Sentient. It was evolving. Leon wasn't able to shout to Piers in time to stop him.

 "Piers, wait--!"

 The man was already howling, lunging forward to put his body weight into the blast as he threw his right arm forward to attack. After years of combat, Leon's keen eyes caught it all. As electricity began to spring free from Piers' fingers, the lights in the lobby all exploded and glass rained down in a sheet upon them. Leon lifted his forearm to cover his face. The Lepotitsa braced its feet and _screamed_ , its voice cracking windows as the sound carried throughout the gore covered facility. Before the lightning Piers released had barely covered half of the space between them, one of the Napads finished clawing its way to freedom and covered the Lepotitsa with its huge hulking back.

 The strike hit the brute with enough force to send its outer shell flying in several directions. It burnt right through the flesh, leaving a deep puncture like gouge of smoldering tissue all the way down to the disfigured line of bone that served as the Napad's spine. Calm settled over the lobby as everyone watched the giant fall to its knees. Leon could feel the impact of the thing's body through the floor and the soles of his boots. And behind it, the Lepotitsa grinned its lipless smile - untouched.

 "S-shit," Piers whispered as he took two quivering steps back, knees unsteady beneath him. Leon logged that observation into the back of his mind to consider later as he raised his gun. "What the hell just happened?"

 "That bastard's controlling them, that's what just happened," Leon growled. Gun back up at the ready, he didn't bother to glance Josh's way as he asked, "When do you think we're gonna get that back up you keep saying is coming?"

 Josh's voice was firm.

 "She'll be here."

 "Well, she better make it quick!" Leon replied darkly as he started to unload his magnum into the Lepotitsa. "Because I don't have enough ammo for this shit."

 The bullets didn't even get close as another Napad moved in to serve as the Lepotitsa's new living shield. The gas creature cackled wetly and leaned forward, letting loose another window crackling scream into the lobby. The boys winced, but didn't falter. From behind him, Leon could sense Piers stumbling towards a bloodied computer screen blinking wearily on the far side of the lobby, a red stream leaking from his nose.

 "Josh, don't let anything get past us," Leon shouted over the gunfire as two Strelats and two more Napads began to take shape before them. "We have to cover the kid!"

 "Understood," the BSAA Co-Commander said, "Signet, cover Piers."

 "Roger."

 Leon had never seen a Strelat before, so when the lizard-like creature blossomed from its cocoon only to leap over the Lepotitsa's head seconds later and cover half the lobby one blink soon after, the agent wasn't ready. His gun was still pointed at the gas bag creature when the Strelat raised itself onto its haunches and spread the skin of its neck wide in warning. He could see several sharp somethings begin to take shape in the gums and throat of the creature's mouth. Ooze coated spikes that slowly breached the skin and edged forward with deadly promise. The Strelat reared back to strike.

 "Leon, down!"

 The agent didn't need any persuading. He was already down to his knees and rolling when a second arc of electricity went spiraling overhead. This one was weaker -- no doubt because the only thing still operating for the kid to drain was the computer -- but it still did a great job of streaking right down the creature's throat and exploding the surrounding tissue in a messy gore. Leon ducked his face into the crook of his arm as a particularly large splatter of acidic flesh slapped onto the floor beside him.

 The men sniping from the conference room howled in victory before continuing to send a sheet of cover fire onto the B.O.W.s below. The government agent lithely rolled himself onto knees that he was convinced didn't pop and turned to regard the young man. Piers gave him a quick little wave to let him know he was still on his feet as he pressed his sleeve to the steady flow of blood oozing from his nose. Despite his will to keep standing -- which Leon found very commendable -- the young BSAA agent was still three shades lighter than he should have been and shaking.

 And now there was nothing left for him to drain. 

 "Leon!" Josh howled from ahead of him. "Get off your ass and start shooting!"

 "Shit!" He snarled under his breath and returned his attention to the fight. The men above were successful in killing one of the other Napad, but the remaining Strelat had climbed the walls. Leon saw it the moment it slithered over the shattered balcony, and suddenly the conference room was alight with gunfire and shouting. Leon said a quick prayer for them, then looked at the two remaining Napads flanking the Lepotitsa on either side.

 He thought the Lepotitsa must have figured out that they were immune to the gas since it hadn't dispersed any more since its second coming, but just as quickly as the thought came, it left. The Lepotitsa shuddered, its sacs swaying grossly as gas began to plume out of its body in a steady stream on all sides. It was more the usual, and the government agent was just beginning to wonder if it was more potent or something when he realized what the Lepotitsa was doing.

 With a skinless grin, the creatures vanished into the dark, noxious fog as the cloud continued to spread across the lobby. A deadly smokescreen with even deadlier monsters inside. The Lepotitsa and the Napad were already lacking eyes -- this was their ball field. And as the gas began to drift across Leon's ankles and rise, he realized they were in some deep shit.

 And Josh was already gone, lost to the darkness. Gunfire roared up above, mirrored by what he could only hope was Josh ripping the Napad a new one. The gas lapped at his knees.

 "Any suggestions, Sparks?"

 "If you can shatter the shell on its back, there's a patch of fat. That's their weak spot," Piers said with a heavy sniff as he tried to clot the blood in his nose. He raised his gun and moved to start forward, but Leon stopped him with a harsh look over his shoulder.

 "Stay there. Catch your breath or whatever you do to recharge your batteries. When the smoke clears, shoot whatever isn't human. Understand?"

 Piers opened his mouth to protest, but Leon was already gone -- swallowed whole by the fog.

 

* * *

 

 "Sleeper Agents successful. African BSAA Branch in turmoil."

-J

 Wesker grinned as he discreetly checked the text message, phone tipped lightly by his hip as he gently typed out his response and then put it away.

"Well done."

-W

He looked back up just as Chris' trim shoulders came to a stop before him. The ex-BSAA agent was standing in the kitchen's doorway, nostrils flared and eyes dilated as he took in the aroma of food. Wesker smirked wryly while the man was distracted and then put one condemning hand upon the man's shoulder to guide him in.

  _Time to lodge another nail into the coffin of Christopher's humanity_. 


	13. Fall of the Brave

Chapter 13 | Fall of the Brave

Thick swathes of grayish blue gas wisped by Leon's eyes; the sound of his breathing horrendously loud in his ears as each inhale and exhale rasped through the mask's filters. It made his skin feel tight and uneasy. A whisper of movement behind him had him twisting, heart pounding despite his stoic expression as he aimed at nothing but vapor. The gas ate everything – all noise, all sight. As soon as it had swallowed the American agent, his senses had been drowned in a thick blanket of nothing. All he could feel was the mist on his skin. All he could see was the gas. All he could hear was himself, caught in the abyss – and something kept passing close by.

"Josh!" Can you hear me?"

Nothing. He took a step forward only to trip on a corpse. He was able to catch himself from falling, but his shoes squeaked sharply in the darkness. The corpse was mostly obscured by the swirling gas, but Leon managed to make out a pale hand with well-manicured fingers. Not Josh, then.

While he looked at the corpse, a figure moved in the mist behind him; displacing the air and making the gas curl with its passing. Leon felt wind on the back of his neck and turned, but the creature had already disappeared with a soft chittering cackle that he just barely managed to catch. The Lepotitsa was stalking him.

"Shit."

The agent fumbled at the pack strapped to his thigh, gun aimed by one hand as he tried to catch a glimpse of the Lepotitsa in the darkness. He blinked his eyes furiously as if to clear them, a natural reaction he could not stop his body from doing despite the fact that he knew nothing short of a fan would clear the fog from his eyes.

The cackling started again, this time from the left. Leon spun around to find the Lepotitsa there, its frame even more grotesque in the smoke that continued to billow softly from its writhing pores. He didn't have much more time than that to avoid the hand that shot out of the gas and grabbed him by the neck. The grip was absolute and bruising, just shy of crushing as it lifted him into the air – his boots a good couple inches from the ground. Lack of air made the blood in his temples throb painfully, causing the mask to feel even more stifling than before. Pale, nimble fingers traces the edge of the mask as the Lepotitsa noticed that the gas mask was not the same as the skin of Leon's throat. The agent pulled his knee closer to his chest, willing himself to remain calm as his frantic fingers finally pulled the item he had been scrambling to retrieve from out of his thigh pack. One of the Lepotitsa's talons had just begun to worm its way beneath the seal of his mask when Leon pulled the metal tag from his incinerary grenade and shoved it into the creature's grinning maw.

The reaction was immediate as the Lepotitsa released Leon to try and pry loose the grenade the man had managed to lodge between its jaws and open throat. It choked, sac seizing as gas burbled in unbalanced streams from its body. As soon as his feet touched the floor, Leon followed the momentum of his fall and turned it into a tucked roll that sent him tumbling away from the Lepotitsa. Once he was far enough away, he kept himself flat to the ground and shielded his head with his forearms.

He felt more than heard the resulting explosion. The gas muffled the furious roar of the flames that exploded through every pore of the Lepotitsa's head, but the shock wave – however small – blew the smoke clear in that area for the briefest moment as pink mist took its place. Leon looked up just in time to see the Lepotitsa writhing, gas sputtering in frantic spurts as its headless body jerked spastically before him. But the agent didn't have much time to enjoy the victory.

No sooner had the Lepotitsa fallen to its knees than a Napad emerged from the cloud of smoke and sent its bludgeon of an arm into Leon's side. The attack sent the American flying through the air, head smacking into the marble floor as his body toppled closer to the edge of the smoke. The blow left him winded and disoriented. He could just barely see the Napad's great, hulking feet beginning to pick up momentum as it charged towards him – the agent's eyes blinking incomprehensively – when Josh appeared from somewhere in the darkness to ram against the creature's side. His body wasn't heavy enough to cause any significant damage, but it did serve to send the Napad off its intended path, past Leon, and off into the clear area of the lobby. The sound of gunfire immediately fell down upon it.

Here at the edge of the cloud, Leon realized that he could hear and see better. Reconnection with his senses bolstered his resolve, and he was already on his hands and knees when Josh – bloodied from his unseen battle in the gas – came to a stop in front of him and helped him up. His muscles felt light and fluttery, on the verge of crapping out, but Leon forced himself to push those sensory inputs to the back of his mind as he turned around to see what happened to his would-be murderer.

Through the thin haze of mist that remained, he was able to make out the thin outline of Piers' frame as lights flashed in the smoke. The hulking shadow of the Napad raised its giant arms above its head in ape-like fury as it roared, but when his arms came crashing down, Piers was already moving. The young B.O.W. skirted his way around the creature while its fists were embedded into the marble floor and began to unload upon its back. The hard shell of its back burst in a steamy explosion from its body just as Josh jerked Leon by the elbow and forcefully turned him around, drawing his attention away from the fight.

"That thing isn't dead!" He howled as he began to unload upon the Lepotitsa. Sometime between when the Napad had attacked him and when he had been watching Piers attack the Napad, the Lepotitsa had once more enveloped itself within a cocoon and began to heal during the momentary distraction. Now its lithe frame was wiggling free from its gel filled casing again, its skin glittering in the haze as it slopped onto the floor. Josh's bullets did nothing as the thing's body just continued to absorb shot after shot, body shuddering all the while. When the African agent's gun ran empty with a hollow clack, the Lepotitsa began to find its way onto its feet with a lipless grin.

The creature had changed again, Leon realized. Two large slits were now present just a bit higher than the bridge of where its nose should be – the Lepotitsa sensed the change too, because no sooner had the agent noticed it than those two slits flew open to expose bright, icy white eyes and endlessly large pupils staring back at them. The creature could see.

It let out a howl of pure energy – too confused between the new sensory images and the bright environment to understand what it was seeing. The creature blinked rapidly, body flailing, and Leon took a step forward to take aim and advantage of the situation. But as soon as his gun was raised, the Lepotitsa whirled on him with a frightening madness in its eyes, its body shuddering furiously as it reared its spin back. The pours in its body quivered and that was all the warning the men got before each and every bullet it had absorbed came ricocheting out of its body in a flurry of metal shrapnel.

Leon swung one arm out and managed to grab Josh's neck in his elbow as he threw them both to the ground for cover. The reaction was still slow, however, and he heard the other man's groan as a bullet jammed itself into Josh's Kevlar vest. Another bullet managed to graze Leon's right bicep, and the man had just enough time to hope that there was no infective gunk on the bullet before the barrage of metal stopped and two strong, spindly hands grabbed him by the ankles.

The motion was abrupt, causing him to lose his grip on his gun as he was suddenly dragged away from his partner and pulled into the air upside down. Blood rushed to his head – the feeling worsened by his earlier head injury – and for a moment all Leon could see was white. His eyes rolled back into his head as pressure grew at the back of his skull when the sound of gunfire suddenly erupted again. Bullets pierced the creature's lanky arm, causing it to drop the American agent as it howled at its attacker. Leon had just managed to roll onto his elbows and knees when Josh began to pull at the collar of his shirt and drag him away. He caught snippets of Piers shooting at the creature, and then he was being rolled onto his front as fingers brushed his hair from the gash at the back of his head, and the familiar feel of medical spray began to force split skin closed. He hadn't realized the Napad's attack had left such a damaging mark in its wake, and Leon groaned gratefully to his partner as Josh healed him.

When the wound finished closing, the other man quickly lifted him to his feet by his elbows and pushed his discarded gun into his hands.

"We gotta help the kid!" Josh shouted as he pointed his disoriented partner's attention to Piers. The American BSAA soldier still looked shaky after having released so much energy, but even so he held his gun pretty damn steady as he unloaded clip after clip into the Lepotitsa. The attack would only fuel the creature for another round of return fire, but for now it served to distract and pin the creature in a corner.

"We need a bigger gun," Leon said. "What do you have?"

"The armory is several floors away, we won't be able to get there without risking that thing getting to more civilians. We have to work with what we have."

"Which is nothing."

Not a second later, the hollow sound of Piers' gun running empty echoed in the hall. It grabbed both of the agents' attention, making them look just as Piers started to back away from the shuddering frame of the Lepotitsa.

"Guys," Piers called as his footsteps started to get faster and he began to run for cover, "Duck!"

And then the creature lunged forward, pours spouting back every shot it had taken. The marble broke into fragments of dust at their feet as the men ran as far as they could. Leon heard Piers shout as a little bit of shattered marble tore through his calf just before he could roll behind the lobby desk. Wood splintered angrily behind him just as he got clear – the kid had been that close to becoming Swiss cheese.

Leon grabbed Josh's elbow and led him to the side to quickly grab cover around the corner of the lobby wall where the staircase started. Dust exploded mere seconds after they reached it. From his vantage point, he could see Piers discard his useless gun to address his wound and pull out the chunk of embedded floor. His face was a twisted grimace, but the wound sluggishly began to heal as soon as the debris was free. Leon pushed the unnerving cold feeling in his guts back and reminded himself that this was the kid who had already saved him twice.

Seconds trailed onto a minute, and finally the Lepotitsa's attack came to an end with a devious little chortling sound. Leon scowled and peeked around the corner just in time to see the creature lean forward in an intimidating posture, arms spread, eyes wide, and teeth bared as it mocked them with its victory and power. Josh was reloading beside him and Piers had his head leaning back against the cover of the desk he was hiding behind – trying to catch his breath – when the Lepotitsa suddenly leapt onto the wall like the Strelats did just moments earlier. A few gunners from the balcony began to release fire – not as many as there had been before the Stretlat scampered up there, Leon thought grimly – before a voice from above called off the attack.

"Cease fire! Were none of you dumbasses watching? It'll just use our ammo against the Co-Commander! Cease fire, damn it!"

Leon let out a grateful breath for the unknown soldier's cunning as the gunfire sputtered to an end. The Lepotitsa howled at the balcony from its place on the wall before taking the down time to look around the lobby for the first time. Its gaze settled on Leon before he could duck back behind the wall, then upon the desk where it could smell an open wound slowly healing. It chittered curiously, making Leon's guts clench as he loaded up his last clip of ammo before he leaned back out of cover to sneak another peek.

The Lepotitsa wasn't looking back at him this time. Its face had an expression that Leon could only describe as wonder, if the creature still had the musculature or facial tissue to express such an emotion, as it looked at the world beyond the lobby windows with awed eyes.

"Shit! It's going for the windows!" Leon shouted as he twisted out of cover and began to release fire again – anything to distract it and keep it inside – but it was too late. The Lepotitsa scrambled forward with a flurry of long limbs that moved faster than such a bulbous body had any right to move with. It scuttled along the wall, tactfully evading shot after shot as it leapt back down to the floor and barreled through the glass with all of its weight. The window shattered into a network of spider cracks and broken shards that fell to the floor in a musical little tinkle.

"No! We can't let it reach the city!" Josh howled. But each thundering footstep they took felt like wading through water as they watched the deformed creature duck beneath the broken glass and take its first step outside. The effect was instantaneous, and no sooner had the creature stepped into fresh air than it released a large plume of thick, noxious gas into its surroundings. Leon could see the way the wind pulled at it, shifting it out further into the air and up into the sky. The cloud was too small to do any immediate damage, but if the creature pulled a stunt like it had in the lobby, a large cloud could potentially infect everyone in the immediate surroundings of the base.

"No!"

Leon quickly ran past the lobby desk just as Piers gathered up the strength to vault himself over the desk's tabletop and start running.

"Sheva, do you read?" Josh shouted into his comm. system as he ran, his breath ragged. "The creature is outside and capable of infection on a mass scale. Sheva? Sheva!  _Damn it!_ "

"We don't have enough time for that, Josh," Leon said, "We need to do something  _now_."

They came to a halt at the shattered window, glass crackling angrily beneath their feet as they took in the sight before them. Reinforcements had come. Hope flickered through the American agent's chest as he looked at row after row of BSAA soldiers as they came barreling into the courtyard, guns aimed and ready.

And maskless.

Something heavy and cold dropped inside his stomach. He fisted Josh's uniform at the shoulder, eyes wide and skin clammy.

"Tell them to back off! They don't have masks!"

"What?" And then Josh did something costly; he took a precious second to look for himself. His eyes widened and he quickly put a few fingers to the comm. link in his ear just as the firing squad ahead released fire.

Bullets reigned down upon the Lepotitsa in mass, shot after shot making the creature's flesh dance beneath the barrage. Leon, Josh, and Piers had mere seconds to realize what was happening before some of the shots breezed past the irate creature and towards them. They rolled to the ground, glass biting into their skin, and kept their bodies as flat to the ground as possible as the firing squad attacked. Marble splintered and shattered all around them, kicking up dust and resulting in large pockmarks in the floor. Leon could barely hold back a yelp of pain when a bullet grazed his hip, but the wound was superficial at best – he could heal it later.

When the squad finished, it was too late. Leon raised his head – face pale with dust – as the leader of the squad raised a hand to signal they hold fire. A white, chalky cloud had enveloped the creature, but Leon already knew what was happening within. Even now, the gaseous monster would be cocooning itself in its own slime and blood, hardening its body and perfecting itself for the next round. There had been too many bullets for it to just absorb. The hailstorm of metal had to have left it in tatters. The cocoon was a worse result than having to suffer another round of return fire from the creature's bulky form.

Leon rolled to his feet and ignored the shock of pain in his hip as he shouted. "Retreat! It infects through gas!"

Through the haze, he could see the chrysalis clearer, as well as the tense men and women beyond it. The soldiers didn't move. He could see the head soldier looking at him, eyes squinting to perceive him through all the dust.

"Agent Kennedy! Agent Stone!" The soldier yelled. "I think we've felled it. It's clear!"

"No!" Josh yelled. "It's about to get worse! Run! Get help! Get masks!"

But the man didn't listen, his attention diverted as the cocoon burbled and cracked between them. Leon waited to see what the difference would be this time and raised his gun.

"If that fucker has wings,  _I swear—_ "

Red dot after red dot appeared upon the cocoon as the squad from the balcony emerged from the lobby to stand beside them. They were fewer in number, Leon noted, but at least some survived the close encounter with the Strelat that had managed to slip past them. Josh looked to his side to see the leader of the squad and grimly grasped the man at the shoulder in appreciation, then returned his attention to the cocoon.

The seam that split across the hard case of the chrysalis suddenly widened, but instead of a glossy hand, a large plume of gas slipped out of the casing with a pregnant swell and swirled out into the air. The cloud was dense and growing, whirls of it twisting innocently toward the unprotected men and the unaware city behind them.

"Run!" Josh yelled, throat ragged, but it was too late. Two spindly limbs twisted out from the cocoon – longer and stronger looking than before – and the soldiers diverted their attention from the gas to releasing another round of fire upon the creature. As the gas grew, the Lepotitsa disappeared within it, and suddenly Leon could not see the soldiers on the other side of the gas at all. He could only hear them.

The firing dwindled down slowly at first as the soldiers closest to the smog hacked and ceased firing. Then another row ceased firing and began to cough, followed by another; the sound of it wet and painful. The soldiers began to panic – their cries of horror loud and piercing in the otherwise quiet courtyard as one by one, they combusted from within. Leon could see muted flashes of light in the noxious fog before them, like stars birthing into existence only to disappear just as quickly. Tiny supernovas that winked out one after another, just like that. Fire roared, brave men screamed, and cocoons began to form.

And then a worse sound followed. Silence.

"Do you think they're all B.O.W.s?" Josh whispered, his tone numb. He was going into emotional shock – Leon saw the moment when the man he had known suddenly disappeared within the flesh of a BSAA soldier. His hip began to ache fiercely.

"Let's hope that's all they are." The thought that they might all become like the Lepotitsa or worse made a cool bead of sweat drop down his spine with a shudder.

Chittering began to filter through the cloud – soft at first and then growing in volume as the Lepotitsa stepped forward before them, one pale foot and then the other, its skinless grin triumphant as it gazed at them with its big eyes.

It had changed; the arms and legs were longer. It was easily taller than any man still standing, and the muscle corded along each limb was more streamlined and powerful looking. It looked less like a radiation experiment gone wrong and more human-esque. Well it had not managed to grow lips yet, but the skin of its face was rounded and more healthy looking, reminding Leon of those Discovery Channel shows that built clay faces from skulls and bones layer by layer. A fine sprinkling of hair had cropped up at its head. The pours of its body were smaller now, though the gas they excreted was denser and darker, and just as deadly. It was slowly becoming a more efficient predator. In the beginning it did not have eyes, so it grew them. The bullets tore it apart, so it learned to use them. The humans fired upon it, but not each other, so it became more like them. God save them if it learned to speak.

Leon instinctively knew that if it had the opportunity to delve into its cocoon once more, there would be no stopping it. It would be able to pass as normal, escape, and slip into the crowd of the city with everyone none the wiser.

"Where the hell is Sheva?!" Leon growled, for once letting his temper feed his actions as he glared at Josh. The man had the good sense to look shamed. Their base had been infiltrated, their leader was MIA, and his men had not been ready for the attack or how to handle it. It was a human mistake that had cost them exactly that – their humanity.

Josh opened his mouth to speak just as a chorus of splitting cocoons and wet shrieks clawed through the air. The B.O.W.s were hatching, Leon was down to his last clip, Piers was out of energy and ammo, Josh was empty as well, their reinforcements were defeated, and all hope was lost.

A man from Josh's team grimly passed each of them a clip – despite the fact they knew they could not use it – and each man prepared to die fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON, OH MY GOD - THIS CHAPTER. Sorry! Also, this fanfic is way longer than I thought it would be, we're not even halfway through the plot I intend to take you through. Crazy! XD Hopefully you guys don't mind sticking with me for a few dozen more chapters.


	14. Hope Rises at Dusk

Chapter 14 | Hope Rises at Dusk

His trip down in the catacombs had left him tired. A small curl of hunger yawned greedily in his belly, but Chris managed to maintain his fragile grasp upon his cognition. That was, he managed it until the wall of delicious aroma from the kitchen slapped him crisply in the face. The effect had been instantaneous. His hunger multiplied tenfold with a painful twist. He put his hand to his stomach out of sheer reflex, his mouth salivating as he waited for the feeling to pass. It left a steady burning feeling in its absence.

Absorbed as he was in his hunger, he didn't even notice it when Wesker gently grabbed him by the shoulder and began to steer him through the doorway he had paused in and further into the kitchen. In fact, he didn't even realize he had been herded into the kitchen at all until Wesker had already guided him into a chair at the table. The realization sent a cool wave of uneasy goose bumps across the flesh of his arms and neck, but the stronger B.O.W. did not stick around to gloat. Instead, he walked over to the crock pot responsible for so thoroughly distracting the younger man. The BSAA agent just scowled and turned his glare upon the standard kitchen item. A thin trail of steam was wafting up from the pinprick sized holes in the lid, releasing the scent responsible for Chris' lapse in attention.

It was such an ordinary item. Claire tried to tell him all the time to invest in one; that it would cook meals for him while he was at work and allow him the pleasure of coming home to a ready-to-eat meal instead of heating up a plastic tray of microwaveable preservatives that he had no doubt would probably be later linked to some form of cancer or another. He had always been too lazy to go to the store and buy one, let alone chop everything up ahead of time that would be needed for any of the recipes she had collected for him. So he never ended up buying one.

The fact that Wesker had one was unsettling. It was such a commonplace item. It reminded him of his sister, which immediately made a small part of him relax, and therein lay the problem. He did not want to feel relaxed or at home in the kitchen of the man who intended to make him a slave. He briefly wondered if Wesker used the offending cooking utensil on purpose.

"As I stated before, the virus did not give you any comic book-esque super powers, Christopher. So stop glaring like you have heat vision," Wesker said simply as he walked over to the cabinet and retrieved two bowls - one smaller than the other.

Chris gave him a scornful look, but a small part of him couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu as he remembered giving Wesker's clone a similar comment.  _'Where do you get your material from, comic book villains?!'_ He shoved the thought away and watched as Wesker continued to prepare their meal. After retrieving a ladle, the blond poured a very generous portion of stew into the larger bowl, followed by a smaller portion into the smaller bowl. Every move he made was steady, confident, and precise. Nothing spilled. There wasn't even a tiny splash of residue on the clean rims of the bowls as he walked their meal to the table. Chris could see gray vapor twisting into the air from the steam rising off the liquid Wesker set before him, but no sooner had the bowl touched the table than the BSAA agent had his large hands wrapped around its nearly scorching edges and started drinking. He was halfway through consuming the bowl when a bottle of water was placed beside him, condensation dribbling along its sides with the promise of satisfaction.

"You are fortunate to be infected," Wesker mused. "If you had downed that broth as you were before, your throat would be scalded from the inside out, I imagine."

Chris didn't even hear him.

He had gone hungry a number of days in his lifetime. During the gap between his military career and joining STARS, Chris had momentarily gone hungry. Again during his time with the BSAA, the man had known hunger during missions. Some missions outlasted their rations, and he wasn't about to eat if one of his men was hungry. He often ended up giving his rations away. He knew what it felt like to have a hole burning in his stomach, needy and irate within him. He knew the pleasure of finally filling it.

None of that compared to now. In the catacombs, it had not just been hunger searing away at him. It had been a need so raw, a desire so primal, that it would scatter his thoughts if he didn't hold onto them tightly. Now that he was finally eating after hours of darkness, and adrenaline, and exhaustion ‒ it blurred all other worries from his mind in a warm, fluffy haze.

The broth was nothing like he had ever tasted before. The base of it was thick and creamy, the taste sharp and slightly salty ‒ which was nicely complimented by the juicy flavor of the beef and familiar texture of the vegetables and potatoes within. It was the hunger that made it taste so good; the virus working within him to try and make him eat as much as possible now when food was so critical for his growth. When the virus came to its completion, it would no longer need to force such heavy handed impressions on such a normal and honestly bland broth ‒ but for now, it made everything taste as good as breathing felt after a long swim underwater.

Before he finished his first bowl, another was set before him. He didn't know how longer this continued. Minutes were not measured in seconds at this point, but in bowls. But with the emptying of each bowl, he found his thoughts slowly collecting themselves in his mind until his frenzied need to eat slowly died into a dull burning want for more. It was at this point that Chris finally came back to himself. Much like before, it was like a switch had been flipped. The span of time that had passed for Chris had not been minutes, but a blink of the eye. Just like that, he was back ‒ an unknown amount of time lost as he paused his hand halfway from bringing another spoonful to his mouth. He blinked in wonder as he took in the mass of empty bowls around him, then slowly shifted his eyes to see if Wesker was still there.

He was, his eyes sharp as he watched him; his own empty bowl set to the side. Chris hadn't seen him move, not once. It was obvious that Wesker had been responsible for filling the hungry agent's dishes, however, and Chris felt all the broth in his stomach grow cold as he realized just how quickly he had lost himself. The blond watched Chris passively. He did not smirk with victory or look at him with disdain. His expression was merely that of silent companionship and contemplation, and the BSAA agent realized with a shudder that Wesker was considering him. Trying to gauge how far along in the transformation process he was and how much further he had to go. It made Chris furious, but it also scared him.

Wesker did not look disappointed.

"You've regained your faculties, I see. Quicker than last time, too. Good."

Chris set down the bowl.

"I don't see how you consider your virus perfect when I keep blacking out," Chris growled.

"You've barely been infected for more than a few days, Christopher. The transformation process takes time and nourishment. A lot of nourishment. In all honesty, it is extremely likely that you will need more sustenance in this period of your life than you shall ever need to consume in the entire sum of your new life to come. Your blackouts, fatigue, and hunger will fade as you grow closer to completion. Though I'd say you're close now. You did not eat half as much as you did yesterday."

Dread turned the brew in his stomach to ice, but the brunette didn't let that show on his face. Instead, he pushed the bowl away (all the while trying his damnedest to ignore the faint sense of loss that the virus emitted within him at not finishing the bowl), and focused on something he  _could_ control: the topic of their conversation.

"Time for the answers you owe me."

"Answer. Singular. You'll need to impress me with far more than your work in the catacombs for plural answers," Wesker said with a sniff. Then the blond leaned forward from the feline-like way he had been draping himself across the back of his chair and set his elbows upon the table. He peered at Chris from over his steepled fingers and the rims of his sunglasses, giving the agent a good look at his blaring red irises. Irises that burned like the lava that his clone had rotted away in, and ‒ Chris realized with a sting of surprise ‒ no cat-slit pupils.

Just normal, human eyes; minus the glow.  _'I've perfected the virus.'_  Wesker's words echoed hollowly in his head. The brunette tried his best to squash away any surprise from his face, but by the tiniest flicker at the corner of the blond's mouth, he knew he had not succeeded. Chris scowled.

"Why did you pick me?" He asked. "After all these years, I figured you'd rather kill me and be done with it."

Wesker tilted his head slightly, his gaze bored. "You were not chasing  _me_ , Christopher. You were chasing my shadows. My clones. You were hardly any nuisance to me."

"When I woke up, you said that I was the next step of your plan. That I was something you had to finish," Chris said. His skin felt so tight, now that he was so close to getting his answers. He had to admit, if completing a few exercises got the close-lipped man to spill his guts, the brunette was beginning to consider trying harder in the future. This was far easier than trying to riddle it out for himself.

"You remember," Wesker said, his tone tinged with something akin to satisfaction. Something warm curled ever so slightly in Chris' chest. He hoped it was indigestion. "Yes, you are the next step. You have been for a long time. 17 years, to be exact."

The BSAA agent felt like someone had just poured a sheet of ice down his back and arms. Every hair on his body stood on end as he digested that information. He had been a part of Wesker's plans for 17 years. His brows furrowed momentarily as he broke down the time difference. Whatever had started Wesker's interest in him, it had happened sometime after he had joined STARS in 1996 and before the Arklay Mountains in 1998. He fingered through his memories, trying to pin point exactly when that could have been, but stopped when Wesker's chuckle interrupted him. Chris glared at him. This was amusing the blond far too much. It made something twist angrily inside him ‒ he didn't want the blond to  _enjoy_ giving up his answers.

"Explain."

Wesker's smile widened then. If Chris had asked him to explain instead of demand it, the B.O.W. could have denied his request. After all, he only got the answer to  _one_ question. Demanding it was the only safe course of action.

"You've caught on. Good. Then let's begin. Tell me, Christopher," the B.O.W. purred as he leaned forward. "What do you remember of October 13th, 1997?"

* * *

Leon stepped forward as shrieks and the wet sound of splitting cocoons pierced the air. The sun was descending before them. Light streamed through the fog and cast the man into a silhouette, making his form starkly resemble an eclipse. Piers stared at the man's back, momentarily stunned by his unshakable drive. The American agent wasn't even trembling.

"We're the only ones standing between that thing and the rest of Africa. We're the last wall until help can arrive," Leon said as he checked his weapon, then aimed it ahead in the direction of the newly formed B.O.W.s. "I won't ask you to be brave and pretend like you're not going to die. Just make it count."

It was in that moment that Piers officially added another name to the very wrinkled, scratched up, and worn list of people he called 'heroes'. When the young man then took two steps forward to stand beside him, he could have sworn it was his captain standing there for a minute. Chris Redfield and Leon Kennedy didn't share a lot of traits. In all honesty, the only things they did share were their love of country, their passion against bioterrorism, their ability to inspire their men, and Claire Redfield. But it was enough.

"We're beside you," Piers said. One by one, the others followed. The grim nod of camaraderie that Josh gave them felt like the final nail in the coffin to Piers. They were going to die.

As the smoke cleared and a dozen plus eyes glittered murderously at them. Heavy feet pounded on the ground, scratchy howls shrieked, and all the while the Lepotitsa watched them with a look in its eye that looked curiously like glee.

If Sheva Alomar hadn't climbed the wall that stood behind the creatures and separated the base from the city at that moment, Piers was sure they would have died there in the bloody dirt of their fallen brothers. But she did arrive. With the flaming African sun at her back, she was a shadow on the horizon ‒ but with the falling of sun, Piers and the others found that their hopes were bolstered. Sheva Alomar had not come alone.

On either side of the African Branch Director, a dozen plus men climbed the wall and took a knee at its top. Once situated, each and every man then reached behind them to retrieve something that soldiers on the other side of the wall were no doubt raising up to them. The long, red barrels that then settled upon their soldiers were quite distinct, and the young American B.O.W. recognized the weapons immediately. RPGs. A lot of them.

"Find cover!" Sheva shouted to them. Between all the noise and the shouting, the B.O.W.s had diverted their attention. Where there murderous eyes had once targeted the few remaining men that had survived the lobby attack, they now turned to shriek rudely at the new arrivals.

Piers had just enough time to see the smug and naïve glare of the Lepotitsa before Leon had him by the shoulder and was leading their men at a sprint to cover. Piers always found it odd at moments like these ‒ how time would slow. His feet felt too heavy, the air too thick. Smoke and smog curled thickly all around them. Leon stopped at the gaping hole in the window to push each and every one of them through first. Piers had barely stumbled through before he realized what the man was doing. He turned back to grab for Leon when the explosions started.

The first set came in a group of three, one impacting right after the other. The resulting shockwaves shattered the remaining glass in the lobby wall, and sent Leon and the last soldier trying to hurry through tumbling into Piers. All of the men were thrown to the ground and sprinkled with glass as the B.O.W.s in the courtyard howled in agony. Then there was a second set that hailed down upon the creatures at Sheva's call. Stone and rock showered down upon the men sprawled across the lobby floor. Piers felt a small stone strike his head and suddenly the world was a brawl of swirling, inverted colors and the dull roar of explosions. At one point, he was aware of a large slab of smoldering meat landing with a loud, sick slap just beside him. He looked at it dazedly. Smoke was curling off of it.

It went on like this for an indefinite amount of time ‒ one explosion after another ‒ and then there was silence. The young man was suddenly keenly aware of the shrill ringing in his ears as hands grabbed his shoulders and turned him over.

"Pi‒ ... ‒iers!" He blinked slowly. A soot smudged face with blue eyes swirled nauseously above him. "Piers!"

"Is he okay?" A female voice shouted from a distance.

"Head injury, but he'll live," Leon called back as he brushed his thumb against a wet spot on the young man's temple. Piers hissed, then settled when the subtle feeling of static eased the pain. As soon as the feeling started, it stopped when Leon pulled his hand back with a confused yelp.

"Are all of the B.O.W.s disposed of?" Someone asked before Leon could ask Piers what had just happened. He could feel the American agent's attention divert from him.

"I don't see how anything could have survived that barrage of RPGs, do you?"

"No, I guess not…"

He recognized the voices to be those of soldiers.

Hot hands held him steady, anchoring him to their conversation. They were on his back and at his shoulders, easing the muscles and seeping good feelings into him very slowly. It felt like a balm, and he felt as sluggish as he ever got whenever he had a chance to sunbathe on the beach.

"He doesn't look too good, though. I'll go look for some spray," the owner of one of the sets of hands said, and then two hands were gone. He bit his lip before he could whimper for the loss. Then there was the sound of thundering feet, and Piers opened his addled eyes just in time to see the masked troops from the wall jogging to them with Sheva at the lead. Josh met her halfway and hugged her tightly.

"Took your time there, Director," Josh said with a breathy laugh of gratitude. "It's damn good to see you."

"We would have come sooner, but we had to double back for the masks. Thankfully we got your message about the gas before we came here without them," she said. Then she looked from Josh to Leon and Piers on the floor.

"Agent Kennedy, Agent Nivans." She smiled tiredly. "Welcome to Africa."

"Quite the welcome party you threw. Next time, a hand shake will do just fine."

She laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

She took a step forward as her men spanned the area around her, guns raised and searching ‒ whether for survivors or more B.O.W.s, he didn't know. Either way, they were looking in all the wrong places.

Up above on the ceiling behind Sheva, a lipless grin seared into him mercilessly. There was no time to shout, no time to think. Before Piers even knew what he was doing, the was a sudden and moderate hum of energy that left the hands at his back and sent him forward. He could hear a small, sleepy whimper come from Leon's direction ‒ the man who had been holding him on the floor ‒ as he barreled the African Director to the ground. Had he done so a second later, she would have been in the exact spot that the Lepotitsa pounced upon. The ground was shattered where its deceptively strong hands had hurled into it in fists into the floor.

When Piers turned around to face the creature, he took in several different observations all at once. Beside him, Sheva was trying to claw her way back to her feet and to a RPG sitting halfway across the room. Around them, various men turned to face the commotion, mouths open into startled shouts as they prepared to face the unexpected threat. Josh was waving towards the men and shouting orders. And behind the Lepotitsa, Leon was unconscious.

He had no weapons except for the knife in his belt, so he pulled it out. Every move he made was from instinct. He ran forward just as the Lepotitsa twirled on its nimble ankles, arms outstretched. One hand clipped the odd angles of his gas mask as he ducked beneath the arm, throwing him momentarily off balance and causing his mask to be pushed into an awkward position on his face. It left his mouth and nose exposed.

Piers regained his balance and rolled a small distance away. The giant gas creature reoriented itself, eyes furious as it glared at him.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Sheva scrambling to set up the RPG. The momentary distraction cost him. When he looked back, the Lepotitsa was already rearing back, small sacs twitching as a huge cloud of gas spurted from it in an abrupt burst. By the time Sheva turned to aim, the cloud had already obscured the Lepotitsa and Leon, and she barely recognized Piers resituating his mask before it engulfed him, too.

But instinct was already driving the young man forward, and the gas had just barely begun to creep into the lobby when he flung himself toward the body heat he felt nearby and plunged his knife deep into it. Something shrieked ‒ the Lepotitsa, Piers noted with merciless satisfaction ‒ and then the gas was coming out in thicker streams. Blood and mucus oozed thickly around the hands that held the knife, and he could feel the creature shuddering in agony through the blade, but still the creature lived. This close to it, Piers could see that he had managed to wedge the knife into the thing's chest ‒ right through the bone that divided the Lepotitsa's ribs. Nimble hands pulled at his shoulders and ripped at his uniform, but Piers couldn't feel it.

He was too absorbed by the wonderful, sharp zinging feeling that kept sparking through the blade and into his hands. Much like when he tackled propelled himself off the floor, it gave him strength. He could feel warmth entering his body in large waves, like the ocean crashing on a beach. The feeling made him feel human again, energy leaking into him and healing the various wounds he had accumulated since stepping foot in Africa. It also made him weak. Because the feeling made him greedy, made him want more ‒ and although a small voice in his head gibbered, he instinctively pressed the blade in deeper and tried to take in more.

He had never heard screaming quite as agonized or terrified as that of the Lepotitsa's in that moment. It scrambled, its knees buckling as its bright eyes rolled. Piers didn't realize how exhausted he was until now. It felt like a long, cold drink after ages of running in 104 degree weather. It felt like finally laying down after a endless mission of running for cover and surviving fire fights. It felt right.

It felt right until it changed. Until the ceaseless tide of electricity became faint wisps of static. Until a dull, thick throbbing pulsed through the knife and into his hands. Until he felt the last, final heart beats of the Lepotitsa struggling within his palms. He knew instinctively how much energy was left, how much the thing needed to pump another beat. It was dying.

The realization burned him, made the knife feel molten hot, and Piers stumbled away with wide eyes just as the Lepotitsa crashed to the ground, its skin pale and withered. Bits of goo and hardened skin had formed on its skin ‒ the beginning of a chrysalis ‒ but he knew it didn't have the energy to complete it. The hum of commandeered energy buzzing beneath his skin confirmed that.

Moments later, the cloud of gas dispersed, the Lepotitsa no longer able to uphold the steady stream. Sheva saw her chance.

"Piers! Grab Leon and get to cover!"

He looked over to see her RPG shouldered, aimed, and ready. He pushed his terror aside and quickly ran around the Lepotitsa to grab Leon and drag him to safety, but not before he saw the absolute horror in the creature's eyes when he drew near.

He had just pulled Leon behind a marble column when an explosion rocked the building. Dust sprinkled down from the ceiling and air whizzed by the column in a stream, sending Leon's bangs into a flurry of movement. In the moments that followed, the silence was a heavy weight upon the room. Piers kept his back to the marble pillar as he waited. Seconds passed and footsteps made their way to the steaming crater that marked the Lepotitsa's passing. He didn't need to look to know that all that would be there was a smear of charred blood and shattered marble.

"It's dead!"

The soldiers hollered, bolstered by their victory. But despite all the energy he had consumed, Piers could not muster up the energy to face them. Instead, he pressed his head back against the marble and kept a firm hold of the unconscious body he was holding up. He could feel Leon's heartbeat, could feel the electricity that fueled each and every beat. His skin burned where he touched the man, eager to be free of him before it was too late. But he didn't. He couldn't.

Instead, he held him tighter; if only to prove that he wasn't as lost to the virus as he suddenly felt.


	15. October 13th, 1997 | Ghosts

Chapter 15: Ghosts

October 13th, 1997 meant nothing to him, but the weight of Wesker's question started a throbbing in his temples that made him have to fight back a wince. Blood thrummed beneath his skin, pulsing behind his eyes and making dots appear in his vision. He took a deep breath through his nose.

"We did a lot of stuff in S.T.A.R.S., Wesker. The only thing that stands out anymore is your betrayal."

"I'm flattered," Wesker said. His smirk gave Chris enough energy to glare hatefully at him. "But something else happened during your career in S.T.A.R.S., Christopher. You were always flirting with the edges of Umbrella's influence, even then. You just didn't know it."

Chris resisted the urge to press his fingers against the pressure in his head.

"No. I'd remember. We did emergency response work. We assisted with special cases. Took down the stuff the RPD didn't have the manpower to handle. Nothing… Nothing biological," Chris said. "I'd remember."

"Are you certain?"

It was more than just pressure now, and that fact fell solidly into the bottom of his stomach when he registered Wesker's intensity as he watched him. He was watching him like a person would watch a butterfly emerge from a cocoon – like he was expecting something significant. Chris finally winced. The light was too bright; he could barely keep both eyes open.

And Wesker just stood there, smirking.

He was about to growl a threat at the man about his smug expression when the feeling in his head became more invasive. The pressure wasn't just in his blood. It was in his mind. Something was pushing at the edges of his awareness, moving in on his territory. It was an invasion so intimate he didn't know how to fight it. How was he expected to protect his own mind?

"N-no. Get away, get out," Chris muttered as he placed a hand over his eyes and stumbled out of his chair. The sound of his chair squealing against the linoleum made the pounding thrum that much harder. He may have shouted. He wasn't sure.

_You remember. Let me show you._

"Get out of my head!" He couldn't see anything anymore.

_Oh, but Christopher! You asked for this, remember?_

The resultant laughter made his pulse race with rage, but before he could act on it, someone was shaking him at the shoulder.

"Redfield, get your shit together, man," a familiar voice said. Chris opened his eyes just time to be blinded by the bright stare of a helicopter's spotlight passing by as it flew away. Ahead, the man who undoubtedly shook him was walking towards the only remaining helicopter. He seemed so familiar. Something deep in Chris panged painfully, and he could only stare at the retreating man with narrow eyes as he tried to remember.

The BSAA agent was drawn from his reverie as he noticed the string of men – all handcuffed and monitored by an armed officer – being loaded onto the helicopter. A bunch of young punks all covered in shabby cloths and tattoos. A blossom of familiarity was beginning to bud in Chris' brain when his thoughts were broken by another man that came to a stop beside him with two fingers up to the comm. system in his ear.

"You go on ahead with BRAVO team and ensure that the criminals are safely escorted to the RPD, Vickers. Valentine, Burton, and Redfield will remain behind with me to scour the hotel."

"Wesker," Chris whispered, breath caught beneath the tight knot in his throat as he took in the STARS uniform the man was wearing. He looked around and realized he recognized the woods that outlined this place. He recognized the building and the people. This wasn't the kitchen in whatever secret facility Wesker was keeping him hostage in. This was the abandoned hotel on the outskirts of town with the broken windows and bad rumors. This was a memory. This was the past.

This was 1997.

He turned just in time to see Brad wave his confirmation to them before stepping onto the helicopter and closing the door behind him. Chris couldn't help but lift one hand up and give the other man a small, weak wave. It was Brad. It was ALPHA team. He was back.

"Come on, Redfield. You and I will explore the lower floors. Valentine, Burton – you two take the upper sections. We'll reconvene in the lobby in twenty minutes, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Jill said as she stepped up on Chris' other side. Her hair was still dark – dark like it hadn't been in ages, and shorter than he remembered. She pulled extra ammo from her pack and reloaded her gun. Only when she finished did she notice the intensity of Chris' gaze. She blinked. "What?"

"Uh, it's nothing," Chris moved his mouth to say, but before he could, his body pressed on without him. He saw rather than commanded his hand to rise up and wipe at a bit of blood trickling from the corner of Jill's brow. "You okay?"

Chris felt cold despite the fact that his actual physical body felt comfortable in the cool October night. He wasn't in control. He was just a passenger, like some back seat driver strapped in too tight. It made him panic, the feeling only more surreal since his blood pressure didn't actually rise in reaction to his emotional distress. He struggled within while the world went on without him.

She brushed his hand away with a wry smile. "A knick. It's not going to slow me down."

His body opened its mouth to answer, but a sharp command from Wesker drew their attention. They both looked over to see Barry and the captain staring at them. Barry was giving them a knowing look, but Wesker looked peeved to be kept waiting. His past self jumped a bit before jogging to catch up, Jill beside him. But where his body went, Chris' mind didn't go. His body just walked off without him while Chris' mind stayed behind like a ghost. He looked at his hands to see the familiar black fatigues that Wesker had given him and nearly let out a relieved sigh at the sight of them.

"I believe the lesson there is to give your past space, Christopher," Wesker – the real Wesker – said as he walked up beside him from out of nowhere. "You cannot change it now."

Although it made something within the brunette cringe to admit it, a part of him relaxed knowing that he had a tie to the present with him; something to anchor him down. He glared at the man regardless.

"You could have warned me."

"Even for your track record, this is a little unbelievable, is it not?" The blond said with a smirk and gestured for the other man to follow him.

As the blond walked toward the building, Chris looked up to better inspect what they were walking into. The abandoned hotel was colossal in size; siding and window panes broken and shattered from time and neglect. The wooden front steps let out a memorable, weary groan beneath his feet as he climbed them, and the closer he got to the building, the more he remembered. He had been here before.

"It was a drug bust," Chris said as they walked through the front door. "A bunch of kids had decided to start dealing from this location."

"Correct. The RPD had received intelligence that led them to believe that the dealers were heavily armed and called us in to assist. But as you can see, all we found were a bunch of kids with too much time on their hands. Hardly a mission necessary worthy of our attention."

The interior was as ripped apart as the outside. The walls were pockmarked by time and bullet holes – mostly fresh and used only to frighten the youths that had decided they wanted to try and fight back. No one had actually ended up getting shot, Chris suddenly remembered as he brushed his fingers over some splintered wood in the door frame caused by a well aimed gunshot. The carpet smelled of dust and smoke, and the wallpaper was peeling in places. The lobby was of moderate size, but the huge double staircase, despite how it may have aged, still looked marvelous. The hotel then branched in two directions on two levels. Two halls led to the left, and two halls led to the right. From the left, Chris could hear Barry's low voice talking to Jill. They were far away, that much he knew, but no matter how much he strained his new hearing, he could not make out more than mumbling.

"Your new senses mean nothing here, Christopher. You cannot hear what your past self could not hear. Unfortunately, your memories are limited by the human senses with which you remember them by," Wesker provided. The sudden answer to the very question he had been thinking made him turn to Wesker with narrow eyes. All he received in return was a smirk. "I am delighted to hear that you noticed the absence of your new senses though. You are getting used to them."  

Although he tried to scowl as menacingly as he could, Chris couldn't help but feel a twist of fear tighten his guts into a knot. Wesker was right. He hadn't even noticed how often he was beginning to use his senses until he couldn't use them anymore. He rubbed at the bridges of his nose and watched as Wesker peered around the corner that their past selves had disappeared down. The blond then turned from the direction of the voices down the hall and began to ascend the stairs in the middle of the lobby. As he did, the large clock that hung above the receptionist's desk began to twirl faster and faster. Unease curled in Chris' chest. The pressure in his head returned very slightly and he had to swallow down a sudden wave of dizziness.

"What're you doing?" Chris asked as he wiped at his brow with the back of one sleeve.

Wesker was already near the top of the steps as he paused to look down at him.

"This is a memory, Christopher. We've already lived it once, no need to watch it second by second again. I'm…fast forwarding, if you will."

"I'm not a DVD player, Wesker!" Chris growled as the vertigo eased and two forms began to make their way down the hallway again. They were blurry at first, as if moving at twice their normal speed, but just as the blurs came to the lobby, they slowed. Their past selves had returned.

"They're not here yet," Chris' younger self said as he and his captain came to a stop feet shy of the real Chris. It was extremely surreal, and the BSAA agent couldn't stop himself from stepping closer to his past self to evaluate him. It was like looking into a full length mirror into history. He was pretty scrawny back then, he realized with a small pang of shock. Younger and more full of life and naivety.

"Thank you for your astute observation, Christopher," the STARS captain said as he pressed two fingers to the communication link in his ear. "Valentine, Burton. What's your ETA?"

There was the sharp sound of feedback before Jill's voice popped up. "We got sidetracked, captain. We're still on the other side of the hotel. We've found various narcotics and needles. Everything they'd need…"

"What's wrong?"

"It's just a bit odd," Jill said after a small, unsure pause. "All of this stuff looks like it's freshly shipped in. Sealed and capped needles, everything is sterile and organized. Drugs haven't even been touched yet. A bit strange for a bunch of young boys… Like it was placed here just to look the part."

In the past, Chris had been standing behind Wesker. He frowned now as he realized that he could see the man scowl. He looked up to where the real Wesker was leaning on his elbows atop the balcony.

"I didn't see your face before. Why –?"

"I have supplemented your memories with my own, Christopher. It's how a hive-minded collective operates."

"Hive-minded…?"

Before he could get any further with his question, the past Wesker turned on heel and began to ascend the stairs. Chris' past self stayed beside him for a brief moment, and a surreal pang echoed in the BSAA agent's gut as he realized that nothing had really changed. Here, with Wesker still watching over him from above with a knowing look, mouth quirked with wry victory, and himself standing below, confused and trying to keep up. His fists tightened at his sides with an angry squeaking of leather as his younger self quickly peeled up the stairs after his captain, past the spot where the real Wesker stood smirking.

"Captain?"

"We're going to continue on ahead and clear the ballroom, Valentine. Let Burton know, and contact me when you're on your way."

The BSAA agent jogged after then, taking the steps easily two at a time. Wesker waited for him at the top even though their past selves had already slipped into the ballroom without them.

"I don't understand why you're showing me this," Chris said.

The older BOW merely smiled and gestured for Chris to continue after their memories. When he turned to follow, the door to the ballroom was closed. It was an expensive set of double doors, intricately crafted, beautifully carved, and equally rotted. He grabbed the loose and broken door handles and pulled. On the other side of the doors, a grand ballroom sprawled out all around them. The room was easily four stories tall despite the fact that the actual hotel only had two levels of guest rooms. The second, third, and fourth floors all had the middle cut from them so that anyone could look over the balcony and onto the dance floor below. Chris imagined that a large congregation of graceful dancers and billowing skirts would look quite beautiful from above.

Tables were scattered everywhere, covered in thick white tarps to protect them from age. Cob webs floated eerily in a breeze that whistled through one of the shattered windows. A large spiraling staircase connected each floor to the last, and from their position on the bottom most floor, Chris could see their past selves already beginning to climb the stairs to the top.

 The two BOWs then began to navigate their way past the dusty tables, protective tarps swirling ominously at their passing as they crossed the ballroom floor and reached the stairs. Chris could hear their younger selves talking a floor above.

"It's weird… The RPD calls us in to take down a heavily armed drug ring that ends up being a bunch of teens with pistols and untouched drugs. Something doesn’t feel right about this," his past self said.

"Quite."

The older BOWs continued to climb the steps a floor behind their younger versions. Chris could feel Wesker behind him. Where Chris was watching his steps, Wesker watched him – and Chris knew it. By the time they were at the third floor, a crash sounded from above, followed by a surprised shout he knew to be his own. Chris froze as he heard several windows shatter, followed by the telling crunch of doors being kicked in.

"Christopher, down!"

"Captain!"

There was the sound of a table being flipped followed by the sharp barking of gunfire. But the gunshots quickly came to a stop as several sets of heavy booted footfalls stormed the level above them.

"We have you surrounded," a mysterious voice called through the distinct distortion of a gas mask. Chris quickly climbed the last set of steps and came to a halt at the top to find a horde of men in hulking black uniforms grab their past selves and tear them from their cover. His younger self tried to dislodge his captors, and managed to yank one arm free and strike a man before the butt of a gun was slammed into his temple. The BSAA agent hissed, the pain suddenly fresh for a split second as he watched his younger self stumble. Arms grabbed him from behind and at his sides until finally, no amount of struggling could free him. He kicked out and thrashed once he got his bearings, but he was no match for the three men who held him.

Finally they succeeded in stilling the young man, and with one large hand at the back of his neck, they forced him to watch as the STARS captain was brought to his knees in front of the balcony – a gun at his forehead. It took the hands of three other men to secure the blond's shoulders and sufficiently hold him down. Although it did not look as though the man were struggling, the small jerk of his shoulders told Chris a different story. Despite the captain's calm façade, he was not at ease.

"Captain Albert Wesker," the armed man said with distinct pleasure. "I was afraid you would be too intelligent to come up here alone. Your impatience has cost you, my friend."

The accent was thick, but Chris couldn't quite place it beneath the grainy feedback of the gas mask. The barrel of the gun was pressing into the blond's skin cruelly now, leaving a thin red circle where it pressed too hard.

"Captain!"

"Shut up!"

One of the men struck the captive STARS sharpshooter again, leaving the young man to slouch in their grasping hands as he tried to recollect his wits, eyes blinking furiously. Blood dribbled down pale skin from where the gun had broken skin at the man's brow.

"It's been a while, Scott," the STARS captain said. Despite the gun biting into his skin, his tone remained smooth and unaffected. "Fancy seeing you in America."

"It is quite a surprise, isn't it? But revenge makes us all do unpredictable things," the masked man said. "Unfortunately, I'm here on business, too."

Something in the blond stilled then, and Chris could feel a thick tide of apprehension wash over the edges of his awareness. Wesker's memories bullied in on his mind, making the lights in the room wink in and out for a moment until they cleared and the new memories settled.

_Of course he's here on business; he'd never be cleared to stand on American soil otherwise. They want the virus._

The STARS captain's thoughts bubbled through Chris’ ears like they were his own, making his guts clench coldly as he glared at the real Wesker. But the grin he was expecting wasn't there. Instead, he found the blond leaning with the small of his back against one of the tarp covered tables, arms crossed and eyes obscured by his glasses. His attention, however, was obviously on the scene before them.

"Imagine my surprise when I get the order to orchestrate the demise of the man who lost me my job and my American citizenship," Scott said, his shoulders shaking with obvious excitement. "The only string being to make it look like an unfortunate accident. Don’t want  _Them_  knowing that we got to you. I was afraid that might limit me, at first – but you'd be surprised how violent your American teenagers can be nowadays. Stage some drugs, convince some kids to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, lure you here. I might not get the credit for your murder in the end, but at least I'll be the one who gets to have the fun."

"How do I know you aren't just making this up?" the BSAA agent said suddenly, drawing the other BOW's attention.

"I don't like to be outwitted, Christopher," Wesker said very coldly. "Why would I create a situation in which I am outdone and on my knees if I could make up  _anything?_ "

His younger self was stirring again now, regaining his feet and slowly straightening in his captor's hands. The men shook him slightly, just to remind him he was overpowered, and Chris felt a wave of confusion and anxiety run through him at the motion.

_They're going to kill him and all I can do is watch. Shit, Jill, where the hell are you?!_

"So how about you tell me where the intel you stole is and I'll allow your people who  _haven't_ seen us yet to walk out of here alive," Scott said.

The STARS sharpshooter stilled within his captives’ hands, his curiosity piqued by the strange man's words. The whisper of  _'captain'_  was ready to tumble from the brunette's lips, but he held his tongue lest he draw attention to himself and remind them that he was a witness to be killed. They needed time for Jill and Barry to find them, and Wesker was the only one with the currency to buy it.

But Wesker kept his mouth in a thin, grim line. At the pregnant silence, Scott raised his gun back to whip the butt of it down upon the man's temple. There was a large crack followed by the clatter of the captain's shattered glasses tumbling across the floor. Chris looked from the broken halves and smashed lenses to the bare face of the STARS captain.

Gray eyes gazed at Scott impassively. They were unimpressed eyes, as cold as the gunmetal they resembled. Chris had forgotten that Wesker's eyes had once been that color. Like suffocating smoke or the eye of a hurricane. A force you think you can survive until it's too late and you've overstayed your welcome.

"The longer you wait to tell me, the less likely it is that your remaining friends won't find us," Scott pressed.

Still, Wesker did not move. A thousand questions threatened to boil over and consume him from where his younger self stood – thoughts as thick and deep as an ocean's tide ready to flow over his mind until he lost himself within it. Chris tried to shut his mind as best he could against it and felt a small, flaring warmth come from beside him where the other BOW stood. Something had pleased Wesker, but Chris didn't have much time to think on it before a few stray thoughts oozed through his mental barrier.

 _What sensitive intel could STARS possibly have…?_ His younger self thought.

"We could start breaking your man’s bones, if that will encourage you."

Chris turned to look at himself, just out of curiosity. He found his younger self to have paled just the slightest bit, but his expression had not changed. He looked like a young dog ready to snap if he was given even so much as an inch of leash to work with. It reminded him of Piers, and that thought sent a crack into the walls that had begun to form his new state of mind. The BSAA still existed whether he was in it or not. Were they okay? Were they looking for him? Before he could think any further on the subject, the STARS captain spoke, interrupting his thoughts.

"Break his fingers if that will help you cope. I doubt your superiors will accept your failure any better simply because you made an unrelated man suffer before you realized that I will not give you what you seek," he said. The words made the armed man rear back with unbridled fury, and Chris could tell without needing to see beneath the gas mask that Scott's face was no doubt vividly enraged.

"I  _will_ get what I want, Wesker," Scott seethed as he dipped the gun barrel beneath Wesker's chin and lifted it to face him.

"You haven't changed, Scott. All bark and no bite. Thank you for reassuring me that my decision to fire you was wise. You're as effective as you are intimidating."

The man yanked off his gas mask and threw it to the side, his hair wild. He took a deep breath through his nose, then another before he slowly let it hiss out through his madly grinning teeth. His face was unremarkable. European ethnicity of some sort, maybe of American citizenship. It was hard to tell. What did stand out clear as day was the long scar that split the man's face diagonally between his eyebrows. It was healed, but still glossy and pink. It wasn’t a smooth scar, either. Rough and ragged – like the remnants of a wound inflicted from an animal.

"A pity I don’t have more time to  _make_  you talk. But there are other ways to get back what Umbrella stole," he snarled as he returned the gun back to where it had been on Wesker's forehead. “And they don’t all include you.”

The sound of the man's finger descending and pressing upon the trigger was unnaturally loud in the silence, supplemented only by the mute scuffle of the young sharpshooter's boots as Chris struggled against his captors and the sound of two people sneaking up on the scene from behind.

Waves of rage and shame wafted over the BSAA agent in a thick, suffocating cloud, but it took him a long moment to realize that the thoughts were not those of his younger self anxiously trying to break free and save his captain. They were coming from the captain himself. Although his face was clear and unimpressed in the face of his impending murder, his thoughts raged like the hurricane Chris now knew Wesker's fury could be.

_Brought to my knees by this filth. I'll die here because he has enough strength in one finger to pull a mere trigger. How weak. How disgustingly… Human._

And then a gunshot splintered the man's thoughts into a thousand pieces – but the sound was farther away than from the barrel of the gun against Wesker’s forehead. Chris tracked the source of the gunshot back to see Jill Valentine standing at the top of the steps behind them, gun raised and eyes furious. The bullet had pierced the forearm of one of the men who held Chris' younger self still; no doubt because the man accidently blocked her intended target while he was trying to subdue the young sharpshooter.  His captors reeled, stunned by the sudden gunshot, their grip on the STARS agent loose for just a single moment.

And one moment was all Chris needed to yank free of their hold, barrel across the room, and tackle the gunman into the balcony. The railing gave way with a loud, agonized crunch and the two men pitched out into nothingness with its broken pieces. Four flights later, he heard the awkward sound of their impact.

As fear and panic began to encroach upon his mind, Chris reached for the mental barrier he had begun to construct. He could feel pressure in his mind again as someone else helped reinforce the wall against the barrage of negative emotions flooding from his younger self – Fear. Pain. Weakness. Wesker did, however, allow a sliver of accomplishment to leak through the wall, causing Chris to feel his past self’s sense of victory at having protected his captain; just as he would have died for any one of his teammates. The BSAA agent scowled at Wesker weakly in response.

The scene continued on without them, the blanks filled in by Wesker’s memory. Bullets fired all around them, but Chris paid them no mind as he walked towards where the STARS captain crouched. The stormy eyes he found there glanced through the hole in the balcony briefly, unaffected and calculating. There was no sense of mourning in the man’s face. No grief for the fall of his comrade. But there was, however, one small flicker of emotion – significant enough that Chris could recognize it on the man’s otherwise stoic face. The captain was surprised.

But a few seconds were all that the blond could spare before he had to turn his attention to the fight at hand. The captain put his back to the balcony and quickly side stepped his way to the cover of an overturned table before firing at the remaining special operatives Scott had released upon them. Jill and Barry had already managed to take out several of them.

But the barks of gunfire and muted flashes were all muffled sensory images at the back of Chris’ mind as he leaned over the balcony to look at what had become of his past self. What he found there didn’t make his stomach clench or his skin grow cold. It was far too surreal for his mind to register – the sight of his own body, broken and prone on the floor below. There was a spoke from the crumpled balcony lodged through his abdomen and standing at attention, his right leg bent at an odd angle from the shin. The young man had his eyes scrunched shut, breath struggling in his lungs in short, little gasps that sounded wet to the BSAA agent’s ears even from four flights above. Beside him, Scott lay broken. The man had taken the brunt of the fall, his neck very obviously no longer set right between the space where his head and shoulders met. Blood was oozing from the man’s nose and mouth, his arms limp and pinned awkwardly beneath him.

“Do you have eyes on Chris?” Jill yelled, her voice tight over the communications line.

“Focus, Valentine,” Wesker snapped. “You can’t help him if you’re dead.”

The ensuing conversation fell on deaf ears as gunshot after gunshot tore the abandoned hotel to pieces. Chris stared down at himself from above and shook his head.

“I would remember this.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time an injury erased your memory, Christopher,” Wesker supplied helpfully as he came to stand beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, the BSAA agent caught the flicker of something passing over the blond BOW’s face as he stared down upon the past. Something akin to fondness – like thinking back upon a good memory. Chris turned and pointed an angry finger at him.

“But in the end I remembered what I forgot. I would remember this, Wesker!”

Time blurred around them, the gun fight suddenly over and their surroundings littered with corpses. He could see the team below standing around him. Barry was calling in for pick up and immediate medical assistance, his voice strained and angry. Jill was kneeling at his side, her fingers gentle where they pressed at his frail pulse, and Chris, for his part, was unconscious and unmoving. He could see the quick rise and fall of the trembling that had overtaken Jill’s shoulders. She was terrified.

“He’s not going to make it,” Jill said. Chris watched the scene, surprised. This wouldn’t be the first time the woman lost a friend in combat, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But in all the times they had stood side by side at another soldier’s funeral, he had never seen her tremble.

The STARS captain said nothing from where he stood just feet away, eyes locked upon the prone body of his sharpshooter. There was anger writhing in the blond’s bones, the emotion palpable despite his calm façade. Anger, Chris realized with a jolt, that the brunette’s demise was not the one that Wesker had anticipated dealing with. STARS Officer Christopher Redfield was supposed to die in the Arklay Mountains; not at the hands of a crazed ex – employee with a vendetta. This wasn’t according to the plan. Wesker wasn’t in control, and to make matters worse, someone out there knew about his connection with Umbrella and the stolen intel.

The real Wesker placed his hand upon Chris’ shoulder, the leather glove squeaking as he flexed his fingers around the muscle, and gently led Chris to turn around. When he did, the hotel was gone, replaced by a small room. The walls were white and bland, the floor sterile and worn down. There was a bed in the middle of the room surrounded by machines and wires, and in its center, the broken form of Chris Redfield. The BSAA agent walked to the bed slowly, his hands curling around the metal barred frame as he took in the grim view.

The man was battered, his skin black and blue. His leg was trussed up in a heavy cast, his ribs were wrapped, his side was bandaged and bleeding, and his neck was held still in a large foam brace. There was a bruise spattered across the bridge of his nose, making his eyes look puffy and beaten even while closed. A large tube was jammed down his throat, as well as others that fed into his veins and attached to small plastic nodes on his chest. The heart monitor sang a quiet, unsteady tune.

“I can stay, if you’d like,” Jill said. Her voice startled him, and he turned around to see her standing behind him, the STARS captain beside her. Her voice was even and neutral, but Chris could tell by the paleness of her skin and the tension around her eyes that she wasn’t as calm as she let on. The thought of ‘why don’t I remember this’ struck again, plaguing the BSAA agent as he watched Wesker’s memories.

“No. It’s my responsibility to be here. Return to headquarters. Page me if needed. I’ll contact HQ and update you all as soon as possible.”

The young woman looked ready to argue, but then Barry entered the room from where he had been lingering in the doorway and put a firm hand on her shoulder. She followed him numbly out to where the rest of the team waited in the hall to leave. Wesker watched them go with cool gray eyes.

“I hadn’t expected it,” Wesker said from beside Chris, drawing his attention. “I knew how human behavior worked. I had seen units grieve before. But I had never experienced it quite like this. Your loyalty, sacrifice, and dedication had infected everyone around you. You were… contagious. And if the young man from the rooftop is anything to go by, Christopher, you still are.”

Chris didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He bit his tongue as he tried to piece together the mental puzzle Wesker had laid at his feet. He took what he knew of the blond – his rage, his controlling tendencies, his ego, and his sociopathic tendencies – and aligned them next to the situation. Wesker had stayed at the hospital, but not because of any sort of kinship he shared with Chris. It was his duty to be there as the captain of STARS, but his duty was also to report to the higher ups immediately after a situation like this. A duty he was forsaking for a man he spared no real pity for. So why was he here?

 “Why did you stay?” Chris asked.

He didn't answer. Instead, they watched as the STARS captain walked over to the foot of the bed and began to flip through the broken sharpshooter's charts. Chris gave the other BOW a hard look, then slowly walked to the STARS captain to peer over his shoulder at the charts. The writing he found there was hard to read; the chicken scrawl of doctors running on too little sleep and too much caffeine. But it was still legible enough to determine that the man was suffering from a broken leg, several broken and fractured ribs, internal bleeding that they were able to stem, a head injury and concussion, bruising, a puncture through the abdomen and organ damage that they had been able to stabilize in surgery, a coma, and spinal fractures. Additional notes suggested nerve damage and likely paralysis from the waist down; but confirmation was dependent upon the patient's waking.  

There it was in a few short bullet points. He might not ever wake, and if he did, he'd likely never walk again. The ink was so clinical and final upon the paper – heavy words that would condemn him to a bed forever.

Chris shook his head.

"Wesker –"

"As always, you are disobedient, Redfield," the STARS captain suddenly growled as he tossed the clipboard into a nearby chair. He put two hands onto the bed's metal bars just as Chris had mere moments ago and gripped them tight. "I should have known you would not go according to plan when I selected you for this team."

"What plan?" Chris asked.

"I hand selected every member in STARS, Christopher. Each of you had a specific purpose to fulfill for the Arklay experiment. Each of you served as a specific representation of humanity. And then you threw a wrench in my plan as you always do."

"I'm sorry to have thrown myself off of a balcony for you, Wesker," Chris growled beneath his breath, but it only made the blond BOW smile.

"No need to apologize. You're about to make up for it."

"What?"

But then the STARS captain let out a small sigh and straightened, drawing their attention. He brushed his fingers over the breast pocket of his uniform before slowly walking to the door and closing them within. With a small click, he locked it and turned back to regard the helpless man before him. The sound of the lock setting into place echoed hollowly in the silence. Although the STARS captain did not know the BSAA agent was there, Chris couldn't help the sudden bubble of anxiety that formed within his chest.

"What are you doing?"

"Watch, Christopher."

Wesker's past self then pulled back the little flap covering his pocket and procured a small, empty syringe. He held it in both hands and came up beside the brunette's bedside. At the sight of the needle, Chris froze. Shock frosted his skin as he watched the blond man gently roll back one sleeve, grab an alcohol swab from a nearby counter, and gently wipe down the crook of his bare elbow.

“I can’t say that I understand your motivations,” the blond man muttered, his words short and frustrated. With the flick of one thumb, he uncapped the empty syringe. The clatter the cap made when it fell was loud in the otherwise quiet room, interspersed only by the soft gasp of the brunette’s struggling breath and the soft flutter of the heart monitor. “But your sacrifice is more appreciated than you might imagine, Christopher. Humanity owes you a great debt.”

Wesker aligned the needle with a dark vein beneath his pale skin and quickly impaled the soft flesh there. When he pulled back on the plunger, dark red blood began to pool up into the syringe, filling it slowly.

“I would have preferred to run a different test upon you when the time came, but I find that this one will benefit us both considering the circumstances,” he said as he withdrew the syringe and held it up in the light. Crimson sloshed in the vial before him innocently. He ignored the thin of trail that oozed from the puncture at his elbow and removed the small needle already inserted into Chris’ wrist that was injecting him with a steady dose of donor blood. He gently rubbed the puffy injection sight and then moved his attention further up the arm and to the elbow. With another swab, he wiped the man’s arm clean.

“I can’t imagine a man like you to ever find content in a paralyzed life. However, no one else has yet to survive this particular test. So whether this kills or saves you,” Wesker said as he aligned the needle with Chris’ vein. “It is still a mercy.”

The BSAA agent watched with wide, unbelieving eyes as the blond depressed the plunger and injected the small sample of blood into the other man’s veins. It was too simple, too quick. Something so significant and life changing shouldn’t be so easy. His past self didn’t even struggle. He didn’t even know.

As the vial drew empty, the STARS captain removed the needle and used the sheets to stem the blood that emerged from the puncture. Chris waited for something to happen. For his skin to decay or tentacles to protrude from his flesh, but then he remembered that this was the Wesker of another time. Before the infection. Before he became a Tyrant. Before he became whatever he was now.

Back when he was just a man.   

Research journals and notes from the Spencer Estate flashed before his eyes. Notes about anti-bodies and superior genes. Dead subjects and brutal methods. Inhuman children.

The STARS captain kept pressure on the puncture mark while he kept his gray eyes on the heart monitor. Seconds passed; minutes. And then something happened. The heart monitor began to show signs of stabilization – the tune becoming steady and even. It was a small, slow change. The brunette didn’t suddenly open his eyes, nor did his wounds immediately sow together. But the track marks that began to darken from the injection site were telling. He wasn’t the same.

The blond man straightened, a surprised but pleased quirk to his lips.

“Welcome back, Chris.”

“What did you do to me?” Chris asked in a soft, bewildered breath. From beside him, the other BOW smirked and watched his past self dispose of the syringe in a biohazard bin.

 “I saved your life.”

It all clicked together in a rush. On October 13th, 1997, one of them should have died.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We're separate,  
> two ghosts in one mirror, no nearer"  
> "Say When" | The Fray


	16. Webs and Strings

Chapter 16: Webs and Strings

"You're lying."

"You really shouldn't ask questions if you aren't prepared to hear the answers. Believe whatever you like, but it won't change what happened," Wesker said, his lips quirked with a smug grin.

The memories had faded now, leaving the two BOWs in the black head space that Chris had become accustomed to when he slept. His other self was nowhere to be seen though, and Chris thanked whatever being was above for that small mercy. He didn't want Wesker to see yet another symptom that pointed to the completion of the BSAA agent's transformation.

Chris pointed an angry finger in the blond's direction.

"Nothing changed! I still bled. I still got concussions and broken bones. I still got hurt! I couldn't have been infected!" Chris said.

"When was the last time you were ill, Christopher? When was the last time an injury actually kept you bed bound for longer than a week when it should have kept you down for a month?" Wesker asked, one hand raised to quell the man's tirade.

"I have arthritis in my knees—"

"—had. Past tense."

"Yes, well, I  _had_ arthritis in my knees. I got injured. I wasn't superhuman."

"I think you are confusing my antibodies with a virus. It's not the same. My antibodies increased your metabolism to rapidly heal your injuries at a rate beyond average human healing. They enhanced your immune system, which makes sense when you consider how many viruses you have come in direct contact with and have not contracted. My antibodies enhanced your ability to produce muscle mass. My reports suggest that you were able to move a boulder four or five times your size back in Africa, Christopher. You may not wish to believe it, but your system was compatible with the antibodies that Spencer inflicted upon children like myself. If life were a little bit different, you might have been one of us."

The notes Chris found in the Spencer Estate flashed across his mind. So many children had died because of those experiments, leaving only Albert – who later went on to kill Spencer himself – and one other child, Alex. Then there was Jake; he also had the antibodies. But Jake wasn't a monster. They only made him better, Chris hated to admit it; immune to illness and other viruses. They made him heal just the littlest bit faster, react just the littlest bit sooner. They enhanced his body's ability to perform at a level few could keep up with.

This directed Chris' thoughts to himself. When was the last time he had gotten sick? In all the times he had been around various viruses, when had he ever gotten infected? Hell, he had actually been toe to toe with  _Uroboros._  When Wesker's clone had turned into a writhing, infected mass and Chris had pinned it down for Sheva to attack, he had felt the parasitic worms clawing at his skin. He hadn't realized it then, but that alone should have infected him. But something had stopped the worms from digging into his body and converting him. Something had him healing faster than most people. Something made him different than everyone else all these years…

When Wesker chuckled, he quickly looked up at him.

"You're catching on. Good," Wesker said, and Chris saw red.

Just like that, the connection between their minds shattered like waves crushing a sand castle. Chris lunged at the blond BOW, fragments of their head space crackling and disappearing all around them to reveal that they were still in the kitchen. Chris grabbed a fist full of leather and threw a punch at the other man's face. The fight wasn't like the last one he had exchanged with Wesker. The speed of his punch wasn't a surprise, nor was it held back. Wind whistled through his knuckles as the punch whizzed past where the man's face should have been.

"Christopher, this is hardly charming," Wesker said as he dislodged himself from the brunette's grip and dodged another blow. While the movement was still made with ease, Chris could see in the man's eyes that he wasn't just dancing circles around him like he used to. He was actually paying attention, which meant that he thought Chris could actually do some damage given the right circumstances. That made the BSAA agent smile very slightly, a glow of satisfaction growing within him. "And you wonder why I don't tell you things."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you infected me, you asshole!"

And for once, Wesker actually turned on him, angry. His eyes flashed vividly, enraged and focused. Chris sent a high kick arcing towards the other BOW's face that he'd never have been able to do so fluidly or quickly in his human body. One kick was followed with another, both of which Wesker dodged. As the BSAA agent followed up the last kick with a punch fueled by the momentum of his failed attacks, Wesker's face changed. The amused quirk to his lips fell and suddenly he was launching forwards – beneath the punch – and had his forearm against Chris' throat as he slammed him into the wall. The brunette struggled, his fingers clawing at the pale forearm and leaving long stripes of bruises that healed just as quickly as they appeared.

Wesker leaned forward and snarled at his face much like Chris had seen dangerous animals do on the Discovery Channel. Pearly teeth were bared before him, and Chris couldn't help but return the favor with his own snarl.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that you'd prefer to be paralyzed," Wesker growled darkly, each syllable pronounced low and dangerously as he glared into the BSAA agent's defiant eyes. The forearm pressed harder, and suddenly Chris' defiance cracked a bit – distracted by the abrupt feeling of numbness growing at the middle of his spine and slowly oozing downward like spilled paint. The feeling was thick and claustrophobic in its nature; utterly invasive as, one by one, nerves shut down within his body. He tried not to panic. Tried to convince himself it was another test. He took a deep breath through his nose and tried to keep his glare strong, but there was a flicker of fear flashing through his mind that he knew Wesker could sense. Just as he could feel the power and satisfaction rushing through the blond at that very moment. "My antibodies spared you from death, and had you not been compatible, they would have spared you from a life of paralysis. My actions were a mercy. The sooner you realize that not every action I make is one of malicious intent, the sooner you'll come to accept that perhaps I actually do have the best interests of my fellow man in mind!"

That sentence sat heavily between them, interrupted only by the sigh of angry air exiting through their flared nostrils as they glared at one another. Finally, the blond BOW grinned cruelly and tilted his head, appraising the man he had pinned to the wall like he would a struggling insect pinned to a board.

"I could leave you like this," Wesker said. "Like the weak representation of humanity you so desperately wish to be."

Chris felt the last bit of sensation from his lower body leave his toes, and couldn't quite swallow the sharp crack in his breathing before Wesker caught it with a malicious smile. Air whistled in sharp panic through his nose as he tried to glare the blond man down. With no small amount of self control, he schooled his face into a mask of indifference as he mulled over what the blond has said. Wesker had done many things in the BSAA agent's experience. Hid secrets, become furious at the derailing of his plans, enjoyed derailing the plans of the BSAA in turn – but never had Chris seen the man defensive, and never about this. Defensive about the significance of Uroboros, yes, but that had been his clone and it had been about his egocentric ideas. Never about the actual best interests of people; as in liberty and the pursuit of happiness. As in quality of life.

However, the brunette was still unconvinced. He snarled in a quiet whisper, "Don't pretend that you wanted to help me, Wesker. I was just a pawn in your plan that ended up working out."

"I don't understand why you have to be so difficult, Christopher."

"Because you just showed me your memories. I felt your emotions. You weren't grieving for me. You weren't worried. I was just a science experiment to you."

"You were a step in the stairs that led to a better life for billions of people. But in the end, you are not standing here because of my cruelty. I could have left you in that bed."

"Umbrella would have been furious with you for missing the opportunity if you had," Chris sneered.

"Umbrella had nothing to do with that experiment. Had I followed their orders, I would have injected you with the T-Virus to study the effect of reanimation upon flesh in the process of dying. Umbrella had no knowledge of my antibodies."

"What?" Chris lower body hung heavily between them, dead weight held up only by Wesker's forearm and Chris' grasping hands.

"My plan to perfect my antibodies into a cure for humanity has been in the works for years, but it has always been my own initiative, Christopher. Before you, no one else had survived an injection of my blood, and there was nothing to suggest that you would survive. It was a leap of faith, and coincidently, the first ray of hope for the new world." He turned to look at him. "As it is, my plans for you changed that day. Ever since, you were always destined to end up right here."

"This changes nothing, Wesker. If you think this would make me want to help you, you're wrong. I'm never going to stop fighting you. I don't care what you did in 1997. It doesn't change a thing," Chris said coldly.

Wesker leaned back with a slow breath, eyes closing wearily before he slowly opened them and looked at the brunette bluntly.

"You know, Christopher, I'm surprised that you haven't come to this conclusion yourself already, but allow me to make you aware of something; free of charge. Why would I allow you as much freedom as I do if I were not certain that one day soon, your alliance would by mine? I could crush your mind at a moment's notice. But I haven't. So consider what you know about me, and then, perhaps, consider what you know about yourself."

A feeling of numbness completed unrelated to Wesker's control over his body then entered Chris' skin. As he mulled over the growing ball of horror in his chest induced from the blond's words, a cell phone began to ring. Wesker stared Chris down for a moment longer before he used his free hand to reach into his coat and pull out the little device. He answered the call and held it to his ear.

With his new hearing, the brunette was able to hear the conversation despite the lowered audio of the phone.

"It worked. Tomorrow at nine," a familiar voice said dully. Chris' heart stopped, his mind reeling. It was Jill.

"J–Jill?" Chris said hoarsely, but Wesker ignored him.

"Good," he said and hung up. He replaced the phone in his pocket and returned his attention to Chris. "Precisely my point, Christopher. I have other means of getting your loyalty. The fact that I do not believe that I will need said means is telling, wouldn't you agree?"

"Then you  _are_  controlling her," Chris said, emboldened by the slip of information. Wesker's face became tight for a second, then smoothed out to a begrudging smile. He let out a little "Hmph" of amused frustration.

"Focus on yourself, captain. Take a moment to digest our conversation and then come find me. After our last exercise, I'm sure you will have no trouble doing that."

And then the forearm was removed from his neck and Chris crumbled to the ground in a loose pile of limbs with a grunt. As Wesker walked away, feeling began to slowly seep back into the BSAA agent's body. Despite his slouched position, the BSAA agent still managed to give the blond a look that promised bloodshed in the near future.

"I mean it, Wesker. I don't care what you say, this doesn't change anything."

"I did not think this alone would persuade you. You would not be loyal if you were capable of being so easily swayed. But it is your loyalty that I seek, and I have nothing to hide. Once you see that, you'll join me freely."

"Never."

"You say that now, but keep in mind that you've already died for me once, Christopher."

And then the blond turned on heel and walked away. Chris snarled, blood boiling as he hefted himself onto his forearms and coaxed his legs beneath himself, but he didn't quite have enough coordination to get to his feet quickly enough to attack Wesker again. By the time he was able to stand, the blond was long gone. No orders to return to his room, no supervision. The BOW was that confident that Chris could do nothing dangerous or harmful to him or his plans.

That realization made the BSAA agent see red. With a few stumbling strides, he grabbed the kitchen table at its corner and flipped it with no more strength than he would need to lift a sheet of paper. The table went tumbling across the room and split on impact with the wall, sending one of the broken table legs rolling away. Plates clattered and crashed, spilling left over broth onto the white linoleum floor in a mess of broken shards and brown liquid. Chris' chest heaved as he tried to calm himself. The table had done little to soothe the red haze in his vision.

He let out a small yell of frustration and covered his face angrily with his hands, aware that Wesker probably had cameras everywhere; that he was probably enjoying his misfortune. But what could he do? He was stuck in a web of uncontrollable circumstances, and worst of all – so far, Wesker had been right every time.

Chris took a deep, ragged breath and leaned his head back to look at the ceiling. His hands slid weakly from his face and he sighed.

"Come on, Redfield," he said softly to himself. "No one can make you believe him but  _you._ You're not lost yet…"

But even as he said the words, he didn't immediately pursue his foe. Despite the show of weakness, he waited in the kitchen a moment longer. There, amongst the broken shards of table and spilled food, he enjoyed a brief reprieve from the man who wanted to break him.

Surrounded by silence on all sides, except within.

* * *

Piers was laid back in a fancy leather chair on the plane they had originally arrived in, relishing the feel of its plush cushions beneath his weary body. He was an inch away from exhaustion, he could feel it. His eyes were barely open, and he didn't even see it when someone approached him. It was only when he felt them curling his limp fingers around something buzzing and warm that he found the strength to open his eyes. He looked from the square, high powered battery sitting in his hand to the man standing above him who had put it there: Leon Scott Kennedy.

"What's this?"

Leon took the plush arm chair across from him and sat with the graceless "oomph" of an exhausted man. He almost looked small, slouched deep into the seat as he was.

"A battery. Figured you might need a pick-me-up," Leon said, and then he gave Piers a grim, knowing look. It said 'I know what happened back there' all over his face, and his expression alone was enough to make the BSAA agent feel scolded.

Something heavy and cold settled in his stomach, but he refused to shrink back from taking responsibility. He knew Leon would have questions about what happened back in that lobby. Hell, if their roles had been reversed, Piers was pretty sure he wouldn't be acting as calm about it as Leon was. This really must not be his first "infected partner rodeo", as he had called it.

"Leon, I – "

"I already forwarded a request to Hunnigan to create a new Kevlar vest for you. It's going to have several pockets to keep some extra high powered batteries in, just in case this happens again. Emergency reserves. So long as you are on this mission with me, I expect you to wear it. It'll be waiting for us at the next rendezvous."

Piers could hardly believe what he was hearing. All at once, the fight fled from his body in a relieved rush and he leaned forward a bit to look at the other man better.

"You're not kicking me off the team?"

Leon let out an amused huff, his bangs fluttering with the exhale.

"Kick you off? Hell no, you just single handedly downed a BOW," Leon said. Piers opened his mouth to explain that it was the rocket launcher that had delivered the final blow, but the other man just raised his hand with another knowing look. "I may have been unconscious for it, but we both know how it really went down. I'm not going to tell you that I don't find that new ability of yours a little…intimidating, but I do know that you also saved our asses more than once in there.

You're going to make mistakes. As these mutations settle in your body, they might catch you off guard. But the point is that even though they hit you from left field, you  _didn't_ eat me. So long as you know your limitations, I'm not worried about you suddenly eating the crew."

Piers rubbed at the back of his neck. He was more than grateful for the trust that Leon was putting in him, but at the same time, most of what Leon was saying sounded like 'I'm keeping you around because your usefulness outweighs the risks'. A small, bitter part of him bristled at the thought. He didn't want to be trusted because he was more useful than he was risky. He wanted to be trusted because of  _who_ he was, not  _what._ Because at heart, he was still human. Some of his disappointment must have shown on his face, because Leon tilted his head at him.

"What's wrong? Swallow the battery the wrong way or something?"

Piers looked at the battery in his hand, then tightened his fingers around it with a grimace. In truth, the little thing  _was_ helping. Although small, it was revitalizing him enough to stay awake; which only made him bitterer. He was running off batteries now like a machine.

"I just…" He said, but let the sentence taper off as he looked outside the jet window. On the tarmac, he could see Sheva and Josh talking animatedly. Sheva didn't look happy about something. Piers frowned and gestured to the window, glad to redirect the conversation away from himself. "Are they okay?"

Leon leaned forward with a small groan of fatigue, then let out a small 'oh' of understanding when he looked at the two BSAA agents.

"I imagine they're trying to decide which of them is going to stay," Leon said simply and leaned back into his seat.

"Decide which one… They aren't both coming?" Piers asked.

Leon closed his eyes.

"Of course not. They are the two highest ranking officers in this facility. One of them needs to do damage control and ensure the airborne infection didn't make it outside the base walls. The last thing Africa needs is another biohazard. I'm sure the news is already aflame about the fact that a BSAA base was hit so badly. I'm actually more surprised that either of them can come along at all, at this point."

Frustration bubbled beneath the younger man's skin, but he managed to keep himself under control. It was easy for him to tell them to both come – his main concern was his captain and taking down Wesker. But this was their home; as important to them as the USA was to him and Leon. When he thought of it that way, he was surprised that either of them was considering joining their ragtag team at all. His frustration was quickly replaced by gratitude.

Outside of the plane, Piers watched as the two agents' conversation came to an end. Sheva took two quick steps forward and hugged the other man tightly, her face burrowed into his shoulder. The lower ranking officers surrounding them didn't mention the unprofessional show of affection, nor did they look put off. Everyone saw the situation for what it was – dire, and the beginning of the end. After a long moment, one of the officers said something, causing the two to let go and each take a step back. They exchanged a look, and then Sheva was turning around and climbing the stairs into the jet.

Once she was out of sight, Josh rubbed at his closely shaven head and gestured for his men to retreat to a safe distance from the jet. When Sheva appeared in the cabin a short while later, she looked exhausted and shallow. She glanced at the two Americans silently, the pause between them all long and pregnant before she took the seat next to Leon. Once seated, the blond agent grabbed her thin wrist gently and smiled.

"Josh can handle anything anyone throws at him."

"I know I'm leaving the base in good hands, that's not what's worrying me. If you two hadn't been there," she started, then trailed off.

"If we hadn't been there, you and your men still would've figured out a way to take that thing down."

Piers gave her a reassuring nod, unsure of what to do at the sight of one of his role models so unsure of herself. He leaned his elbows forward onto his knees and looked to Leon.

"So, where to next, boss?"

Leon looked at him with an amused and pleased look on his face before pulling out the little cube they had used to communicate with Hunnigan before. He deftly put the cube onto the table situated between their seats and activated it. With two bright flashes of light, a small screen began to hover above the cube. In the screen read the words 'Contacting F.O.S. Agent Ingrid Hunnigan'.

After two bubbly chirps from the device, the screen disappeared and the light redirected itself to Leon's left where the cabin's aisle was. The light then formed into a full-sized projection of a familiar young woman in a classy looking two piece suit: Agent Hunnigan.

Leon let loose the cheesy grin that had taken over his face the last time Hunnigan had appeared, and Piers couldn't help but roll his eyes the littlest bit. Hunnigan didn't look all that impressed with the dopey grin either. She held her data pad a little closer to her chest and assumed a professional and polite expression as she addressed them, back straight.

"Agent Kennedy, Agent Nivans, Branch Commander Alomar; I'm so pleased to see all of you intact. We received word about the bioterrorist attack on your facility. I take it everything is under control?"

From his peripheral, Piers saw Leon narrow his eyes fractionally. Something was wrong, and now that the younger BSAA agent looked a bit closer, he could see it too. Hunnigan was more frazzled than the last time he saw her. Her composure was tighter, more terse.

Sheva leaned forward and answered her question.

"Co-Branch Commander Stone will be remaining behind to ensure that everything at the base is secure, but yes. For the most part, we have brought the situation under control. Thank you for asking."

Leon held up a hand to stop Hunnigan before she could speak.

"Yeah, yeah, everything ended up fine," he said quickly, "But what's going on in your neck of the woods. You're wearing that face you get when shit's hitting the fan and you don't know how to tell us."

Hunnigan sighed, and just like that, her façade disappeared with her exhale.

"The African base was not the only base to be hit by turncoat agents. Numerous factions throughout the world have reported bioterrorist attacks. Most of them have been able to contain the outbreak and neutralize the threat, but only your facility and one other reported to have had BOWs as sophisticated as the one you faced."

"Where's the other faction?" Piers asked.

Hunnigan shook her head.

"That's not the point, nor what we need to worry about right now. The BSAA and National Security have been working together to handle the situation. That's not the problem. The suddenness of these outbreaks coupled with the attack on that facility in Washington, DC and the loss of Captain Redfield and Jill Valentine has led to an unforeseen development," she said.

Leon sat up a little straighter, his charm replaced by seriousness.

"What's going on, Hunnigan?"

"A month ago, a new pharmaceutical company named Westbarl Industries announced the upcoming release of a new drug to counteract against the effects of the C-Virus. Erek Westbarl, the company's founder, has been working with the United Nations and the combined efforts of various international scientists over the past year to create this cure. A press release just an hour ago revealed that they intend to change their schedule and release the drug within the month."

The news was happy, but Ingrid's tone was nothing if not worried. Piers frowned, confused.

"I don't understand, that's a  _good_ thing," he said.

"Yes, but it's not that simple. Their press release from a month ago when the drug was first announced stated that it would not be ready for release for another six months, minimum. The fact that the United Nations is pushing this forward is all contingent upon the recent bioterrorist attacks. Normally, the FDA would never approve of this sort of development."

"Hunnigan, where are you going with this?" Leon asked.

"It's all a little convenient, don't you think?" Hunnigan said in a rush uncommon of her nature. She was looking at Leon pleadingly.

"No one believes you, do they?" He asked.

"No. No one is willing to back my leads. Everyone is too preoccupied with providing damage control at the affected BSAA facilities and coordinating the gala that they intend to hold tomorrow night to announce the new release date. Important global figure heads and scientists will be attending the function to receive the first dose of the cure. It's a setup, Leon. Someone is pulling the strings to have this gala happen faster for a reason."

Leon looked at her sternly for a long moment, searching for something in Hunnigan that Piers couldn't identify. All around them, the jet began to buzz. The engines began to roar to life – they were beginning to take off.

"We're not going to Europe, are we?"

"No. Not yet, at least. We don't have much time to act on this, Leon. Every organization I have spoken to has blackballed me. No one is willing to investigate this despite the fact that even now, no side effects or any other information has been disclosed about this serum. I need all three of you in American for this gala ASAP," she said, and then added a little more sternly, "Leon, if there were ever a prime target for a terrorist attack, it's this."

Piers looked to Leon, expecting the man to defend the importance of their original mission, but the American agent merely nodded his head and leaned back in his chair.

"Alright, Hunnigan. I trust you. If you say this is important, it's important."

Relief physically changed the woman, her form visibly more relaxed at having his support.

"I'm sure you'll handle our invitations?" He asked with a smirk.

"Of course," she said.

" – Wait a second, you can't be serious," Piers said, almost ready to rise to his feet. "What about our mission? What about the captain and the data chip?"

"Piers – " Leon started, but Hunnigan cut him off.

"Agent Nivans, I'm sorry. This lead takes precedence over recovering the captain and the stolen data. But if my leads are correct, you'll get the next best thing."

The young BSAA agent wanted to demand that they let him off. He'd go to Europe and continue recruiting on his own if he had to, but something about the tone with which Hunnigan used made him pause. He narrowed his eyes.

"And what's that?"

"You'll get your shot at the man I think is pulling all the strings. Albert Wesker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support, kudos, and comments! You guys rock! :3


	17. Gray

Chapter 17: Gray

The sensation of hot water on his shoulders was a blessing he was beginning to fear that he would never experience again. A heavy spray enveloped him, water pressure pounding on his shoulders and loosening muscles that he knew probably weren't actually tense due to the nature of his condition, but  _felt tense_ none-the-less. He chalked it up to muscle memory. Although he no longer felt the aches and pains of a human body, his skin still remembered what it felt like to be soothed by hot water. The result was enjoyable regardless.

The shower left the bland little bathroom steamy, but did little to limit his vision. Another reminder of what he was now, so Chris closed his eyes and let the spray slick his hair to his head. Water streamed over his forehead and traveled over the skin of his much younger face. No more wrinkles to run through, no more crow's feet to collect at or worry lines to swell in. Just smooth skin and an uneventful journey down his brow and off the tip of his nose. He licked his lips and clenched his fists a little tighter against the shower wall. His skin squeaked against the tile.

The last exercise he went through with Wesker had left him feeling invigorated and conflicted, and he hated it. His skin felt energized, his muscles ready for more. In the past, a hot shower had always done wonders to ease him towards sleep. So as soon as Wesker had cleared him for some time of his own, he headed straight for the shower. Anything to calm down and be something other than what he was – inhuman.

Despite the scorching water and peaceful pounding from the showerhead, his skin still leapt with the electricity and thrill from his last trial.

_The course Wesker had him running was far more intricate than the one he trained his BSAA recruits on. Regardless, he was pretty sure he was still tackling this facility with more ease than he had back in the BSAA. He hurtled boxes, leapt over bars, dove through tight spaces and rolled onto his feet to keep moving. Stress and tension burned in his lungs, spreading fire through his muscles, but still he pressed on. If he had to pause to negotiate a particularly odd obstruction, it didn't take too much time to do so. When he finally got to the end of the course, he leapt up onto the rope that would lead him to the top of the final barricade and pulled himself over. He landed onto his feet on the other side with a hoarse grunt and looked at Wesker expectantly, air whizzing through his nostrils heavily._

" _Again."_

" _What?" He asked, taken off guard. "What are you talking about, that was damn fast!"_

" _For a human, yes. But you aren't human anymore, so shaving seconds off of your previous abilities means nothing. Again."_

_So he did it again, and again, and again. Hours ticked by; sweat ran from his skin in streams. The more he struggled, the more furious Wesker became. As he came to a halt of yet another run through the course, Wesker grabbed him by the hair at the back of his neck and twisted him back cruelly. Chris snarled, teeth bared but too winded to do more than reach one hand back to grab Wesker's wrist and relieve some of the pressure. Regardless, the blond did not let go._

" _You're holding back!"_

" _Maybe the virus isn't as perfect as you think!" Chris grit out between his teeth with a nasty hiss._

_Wesker gave him an ugly look, one disgusted with his contentment to be nothing more than human. The cold look of contempt in his eyes infuriated the brunette, his blood boiling just beneath his skin. He yanked at Wesker's wrist, but it didn't budge._

" _Your close-minded inability to view these gifts as nothing more than abominations of human genetics is frustrating, Christopher. Why can't you_ see _?"_

_Chris freed himself with a final yank and quickly rolled away from Wesker, one hand at the back of his head to soothe the irritated skin he found there. He glared at the other BOW, eyes aflame – aware that his escape had everything to do with the fact that the blond had allowed him to break free, not because he had managed to overpower him in any way._

" _I didn't ask for this!"_

_The blond took a step forward, his gait broad and intimidating as he loomed over the crouched brunette._

" _You did not ask to become an idol to the young men and women of the BSAA either, but regardless, that is what you are," Wesker growled. "At the end of the day, it is not who or what we are, but our actions that are irrevocably connected with what we become."_

_Fury flared through Chris' skin. He rose to his feet, ready to shout. To dart forward and beat his fists against Wesker's face until one of them died._

" _Tell that to the people who_ ate  _their loved ones because of the monsters your virus turned them into! I doubt they did that by choice!"_

" _And what about people like your friend on the rooftop, Christopher," Wesker snapped back simply._

_Piers. Chris opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it. He thought of Piers, the young soldier who fought BOWs tooth and nail beside him. Who journeyed through all of Edonia to find him, who dragged him out of hell multiple times, and who gave up his very molecular identity to ensure that Chris would live to lead the next generation into a time free of bioterrorism. Piers who lived; who decided not to fight the BSAA; who did everything he could to prove that despite what he was, he was still BSAA strong through and through. Piers Nivans – Wesker's final rebuttal._

_As the truth dawned over Chris' face, Wesker took another step forward, his face twisted into the slightest sneer._

" _Ah yes, there it is. You understand now," he purred. "Now stop using what could happen as an excuse. At the end of the day, Christopher, what you become is your choice. I'll use you either way."_

" _That's not entirely true though, is it," Chris retorted, his eyes narrow. "You don't want the Captain of the BSAA beside you."_

_And then, Wesker smiled knowingly._

" _I don't think that will be a problem for much longer. Again."_

_It was with that last remark hanging heavily between them that Chris turned on his heel, embedded his hand two inches into the stone of the barricade he had scaled with an enraged punch, and made his way back to the beginning of the course. The truth of his situation simmered beneath his skin and scalded the very core of his identity. Despite his pleas that cried that the recent turn of events were not fair, it was time to realize that those events would not change because he simply refused to accept them. He'd take a page from Piers' book. He'd stop viewing his new state of being like an affliction and instead turn it into a weapon with a trigger for his finger only. If Wesker would leave him no quarter on accepting his new abilities, then Chris would at least do so on his own terms. The more he learned about his abilities, the more information he'd be able to gather to use against the blond._

_When he reached the beginning of the course, he didn't bother to settle into the runner's stance that he had taken every other botched run. He stood at the starting line, head high and eyes searing as he looked past the obstructions to where Wesker waited on the other side. His anger marched around his skin like a forest fire, bright and steaming. Its presence consumed the room, changing the stale air and charging it until something in Wesker's eyes lit up ever so slightly._

' _Ready, Christopher?' The blond's voice whispered through his mind as if his lips had whispered the words a mere hair from the curve of his ear. But his eyes knew the truth, Wesker's lips never moved. He was speaking to him on a much more intimate level – his mind. The blond wanted it to throw him off; testing his understanding of their conversation._

_Above him on the far wall, the timer reset to '03' and began to count down, the change of each number partnered with a loud warning chime. 03 – beep; 02 – beep; 01 – bee—_

_His boots left the floor before the last chime had even sounded for more than a fraction of a second. As his first footfall landed, something seemed to pop within him, reminding him of ears popping on an airplane and the sensation of equalizing after too much pressure. Strength flooded him, eradicating the painful burn he had experienced from his other runs. It wasn't new strength, it had been there all along – but whenever he had tried to grab it before, it had slipped through his fingers like sand on a beach._

_He leapt over barrels, dove between bars, and vaulted over debris. The obstacle course hadn't changed, but he simply_ knew it  _now. His feet knew where to land, his hands knew where to go, and his body knew how to move to harness the momentum he had accrued. When he ran as a human, he never noticed anything about the operations of his body other than the telltale burn that would accumulate after too much stress. Now he was hyper aware of every mechanism of his body. The way his thighs flexed, the way his fingers worked around obstructions, the way every ligament in his body flowed together to push him forward – everything was not simply working better, it was working perfectly together._

_He didn't need the rope to scale the last barricade. When his feet hit the ground, he didn't need to curl into a crouch to recover. He didn't need a heavy lungful of air to catch up. He stood tall, eyes fierce as he stared Wesker down._

_Wesker smirked, arms crossed leisurely as he regarded him from behind his sable glasses. Chris didn't need to be told to know he passed. He knew it. He could feel Wesker's satisfaction, the emotion not only thick in the air, but a neural sensation he could feel through his mind. He shut himself against it as best he could, but he could feel the virus trill happily beneath his skin._

" _What is your question this time, Christopher?"_

" _How many people will die because of your virus?"_

_Silence hung between them, and Chris could feel the emotion Wesker had been openly broadcasting change from pleasure to stone before the connection was shut quite forcefully on the blond's side. The blond hadn't been expecting it._

" _Two thirds."_

_Not approximately two thirds. Not a little more or a little less. Wesker was a man of words. When he actually decided to give an answer about something, he didn't use his words lightly. He used them precisely. Precisely two thirds, he said, and Chris knew it for the truth it was. Two thirds._

_The brunette let out a little huff of laughter, his lungs full with mirth and contempt as he quickly jabbed a finger in Wesker's direction and promised darkly, "You're wrong."_

" _I assure you, my calculations—"_

" _About me, Wesker," Chris cut him off, making the blond's lips purse into a thin, sharp line. "You will never have my loyalty. The only chance you have is_ ifyou make me _, and since you say you don't need to, let_ me  _assure you that between you and me, nothing has changed."_

_Chris walked away without being dismissed. He even allowed himself to shoulder past Wesker, jostling the blond roughly as he passed. The little act of rebellion served to fuel the small light his in chest that had dimmed ever since his captured. It was a candle in the window, a flag on the porch – beckoning the BSAA soldier in him to come home._

_Halfway out of the training room, he heard Wesker turn to regard him._

" _Interesting… For one so enamored with saving lives, you didn't ask how many would in fact live_ ," Wesker said, his tone cool and simple.

_Chris stopped and turned to face him._

" _One third is hardly anything to applaud over, Wesker."_

" _I meant as we are. You didn't ask how many people will live simply as we are – as the people we are today that you so dedicatedly wish to protect. It hasn't even occurred to you, has it?_

" _In the United States alone, home of the brave and the privileged, approximately 597,689 people will die from heart disease. 574,743 will die from cancer, 138,080 will die from respiratory diseases, 129,476 from stroke, 120,859 from accidents, 83,494 from Alzheimer's, 69,071 from diabetes, 50,097 from Influenza and Pneumonia, 38,364 from suicide, another 50,097 from miscellaneous syndromes, and 16,259 by the hand of your fellow man. 1.24 million deaths will occur via traffic accidents._ _315_ _,_ _690_ _,_ _232_ _people in the United States alone, just as we are. Globally, 24,246 people will succumb to starvation. 35,378,145 to AIDs or HIV related to diseases. 402,387 to Malaria, 2,050,752 to smoking. And that isn't even including wartime figures or terrorism._

_"There are an estimated 7,119,956,351 people in the world, Christopher, and a good portion of them are going to die the same way they were conceived – slowly and screaming."_

_Silence hung pregnantly between them, extenuating the soft puffs of their breath while Chris glared Wesker down, searching for any sign of dishonesty or exaggeration in the man. Something. Anything. But there it was, the inadequacies of humanity read out to him like a shopping list. A series of inaccurate estimates based upon the best knowledge humanity had of the situation, not including outliers or unknown populations or variables. Trust Wesker to recite death figures like normal people memorize Shakespeare._

_But death is a part of life. One cannot exist without the other to contrast it and make it so._

" _At least they get the chance to live," Chris replied._

" _Like you would have had the chance to live had I left you in that hospital room?"_

_A twisted, frustrated snarl curled Chris' lips back to bare his teeth, disgusted with the man in front of him, but he said nothing. He was an honest and opinionated man, but what was there really to say to that. He didn't know, and Wesker knew it. Because when it came down to it, Chris couldn't imagine living a crippled life. Not after so many years of activity. Not when the job he was so passionate about required the ability to move._

_The BSAA agent fully expected Wesker to gloat, but the blond didn't smile. He just gave him a somber look._

" _Heroes and saviors exist because of the decisions they make, Christopher. If those decisions were easy to make, we wouldn't need heroes. We wouldn't even have a word for them."_

The squeal of his hand squeezing into a fist against the slick shower tiles drew him back from the events from a mere hour ago. He breathed heavily through his nose, pupils blown with rage. He cursed the stars that had put him on Wesker's team all those years ago. He cursed the scientists who created the virus, and the men who peddled it, and the people who bought it. He cursed genetics, flaws, and diseases. Because this should easy –black and white, right and wrong. It should be as simple as Wesker is a lunatic and needs to be put down.

Chris pressed his forehead to the shower wall and let the water run over his back and drip onto his face in a heavy stream, water sputtering from his mouth with each breath. Eyes closed, he made sure that Wesker wasn't spying in his head before allowing one, weak thought to break his heart.

It wasn't supposed to be so gray.

* * *

The plane ride was long, and the wait even longer. Sleep eluded Piers, denying him of the only way he knew of to speed up the trip. Leon and Sheva had both managed to catch time to sleep throughout the course of the flight, but he remained awake, wide eyed and twitchy. Alone and aware of what lay ahead. Images from the rooftop seared his eyelids every time he tried to rest, reminding him of the monster that potentially awaited them at the gala. He had seen pictures of the man, of course, but the images didn't truly do the creature named 'Albert Wesker' any justice. They showed what he looked like, but they did nothing to prepare Piers for the raw power and malicious intent he had experienced in Washington, DC.

The thought occurred to him that Chris had been fighting that monster for most of his life. His 'glory years' were dedicated to the apprehension and destruction of the crazed BOW, and now he was the captive of the very lunatic he had devoted himself to destroying. Whom he  _had_ destroyed. Piers clenched his hands around the armrests of his seat, making the leather whine in helpless protest beneath his fingers. Leon looked his way, but said nothing. Just bright blue eyes, suddenly serious, that knew far more than his laid back posture and friendly grin gave him credit for. The BSAA agent wondered if that was the point.

When the jet landed, Piers was the first to his feet. Like a dog ready to be free from a car, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other while he waited for the jet to dock and the doors to open. He would have rushed off the very second the attendants opened the door if not for the sudden hand at his shoulder – Leon's hand.

"Cool your jets, kid. You're making everyone nervous."

He looked around to see that he was in fact making the flight crew jumpy. When they weren't trying to get through their tasks as quickly as possible, their eyes would flash towards him only to flick away just as quickly. He tried to think back and remember if he had done anything abnormal on the flight, but he had made sure to behave himself. The cabin lights hadn't flickered, the engines hadn't failed. He didn't eat anyone, he thought with a small shudder of revulsion. Leon leaned towards him, voice hushed as he explained.

"They saw three people board this plane, all injured – but only two needed the first aid kit they provided. People are observant, Piers. You don't need to knock out the lights to make them wonder."

Piers didn't know what to say. Apologize for being a freak? Sorry I infected myself to save the world? What could he do; stop himself from healing? He wondered if he was even able to do that… The confliction on his face must have been apparent despite his attempt to mask it, because the grip on his shoulder turned from reproachful to comforting.

"You can't change what you are, there's no use trying. What you are isn't important. Who you are is. If you're half the man Chris says you are, I have no doubt that you'll figure out how to show them that you're more than a human lighting rod," he said, "You managed it in Africa, after all."

Leon slipped past him as the stairs lowered from the plane. The young BSAA agent watched him go, surprised and a little guilty for thinking the worst of Leon at the start of the flight. His usefulness might be one reason the Secret Agent kept him around, but it was obvious that the blond's trust in him was about more than firepower and circumstances. He had the good grace to feel a little shame before he gave the nearest flight attendant an uncertain glance. The woman was slim and tidy in her uniform, her eyes saucer wide as she looked at him. He gave her a meek smile – just the barest lift at the corners of his lips – but it was enough for her to return an uncertain smile back, eyes downcast and attention returned back to her task lest their interaction expand past her comfort. It was enough to confirm in Piers what Leon said.

His circumstances were all contingent upon his thinking. A BOW might be what he was now, but his identity had not changed. Piers Nivans was what mattered, not the electricity coursing beneath his skin.

"Agent Nivans, are you okay?" Sheva asked from behind him, her face a little older than the pictures he had seen in the Kijuju reports. Despite that, there was still a fire in her eyes, young and fierce as she gave him a concerned look. He nodded.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, then returned her attention to the attendant. "And thank you."

She seemed taken aback at first. Hearing dialogue she must have gotten from a thousand different passengers put her at ease though. She smiled, the quirk to her mouth a little more real as she said, "You're welcome, sir."

He exited the plane and was greeted with the sight of the real Hunnigan standing beside Leon on the tarmac. She was the spitting image of the holograms the little box had been showing them all this time, although more vibrant and solid. They were talking casually, the language of their bodies familiar and comfortable with one another. He recognized the strength of their partnership immediately, the sort of bond formed by years of working with each other – as obvious in Leon and Hunnigan as it was in Chris and Jill before everything that happened in DC.

As he reached them, he realized that there was a small group of National Security operatives surrounding them, eyes focused but weapons at ease as they watched everyone get off of the plane. Piers stopped beside Leon and looked over as Sheva took her place beside him. Hunnigan looked at all three of them, her gaze sharp and considering as she judged their physical conditions. Once she was satisfied, she addressed them properly.

"Branch Commander Alomar, Agent Nivans. Thank you for agreeing to assist with this mission," She said and turned on heel, motioning for them to follow her, "If you would be so kind as to follow me, I'll take you to the briefing room."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] The statistics are shaky - which I figure it okay since this is a fanfiction. I based them off of worldometers (website) and FastStats (Center for Disease Control and Prevention website). In other news, actual action is coming. WHAAAT?! Yeah, I know…it's been a while. Sorry! XD As always, thank you guys for all the support. I adore you!


	18. Westbarl Mansion

Chapter 18: Westbarl Mansion

They spent more time in the briefing room than Piers really thought was necessary. Years - it felt like years, even though mere hours slipped between his fingers. But every hour was another hour the already cold trail to his captain grew colder. Regardless, he tried to focus. If Sheva could leave her base and men behind for this mission, he could put his dead trail on the back burner, too - bitterly.

Hunnigan made sure to explain to them what their jobs were. That they were to maintain their covers as representatives and not active agents at all costs. She shoved instructions down their throats, pushed them into ridiculously nice clothing, and all but shoved them into a limo with little more grace than an overburdened mother with a gaggle of unruly children. Granted, Piers ruefully figured that's probably what they looked like - unruly children unwilling to sit still in their nice clothes and shiny shoes.

The only person who appeared to be at ease in the uncomfortably expensive clothing was Leon; his suit fit him like a second skin and blended into his persona as if it were his normal attire. Piers, on the other hand, felt like a little boy who had managed to wriggle into his father's clothing. The suit fit him like a glove - a note that made him uneasy, when he realized that Hunnigan never actually  _asked him_ his size - but even so, it still looked off on him. A little too big, like he hadn't properly grown into it yet. Hunnigan had made a show of trying to adjust it when she saw him, a scowl splattered on her face as she tugged his coat sleeves this way and that, but there was nothing to do for it. He looked superbly boyish in a grown man's suit, and it made him doubly frustrated on top of his peeve of having to wear it in the first place.

His scowl, which Leon had already called a pout twice, didn't help.

Sheva was doing a little better than him, but only a little. Her dress was beautiful and sleek, and fit her like a charm. She didn't look out of place, but she didn't look like she belonged in it like Leon managed to do. The pale purple of the glittering garment complimented her dark, creamy skin gorgeously - like lavender flowers against pale coffee beans. The sight of her made something warm prickle across his forearms, but he didn't quite notice it beneath the frustration of his awkward suit and the mission that was derailing their true goal: finding Chris.

After a few frail jokes from Leon that ended in awkward silence and a few throaty coughs to clear the air, the ride became long and stuffy. Piers watched trees pass their tinted windows while Sheva and Leon broke the quiet to discuss the plan.

"Do you think it's a good idea to separate the way Hunnigan has in mind?" Sheva asked as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's not ideal, considering the circumstances, but it's the best we can do considering there's three of us and three objectives: Westbarl, Jake, and research about the cure. At least you and Piers'll be close since both of your objectives will be in the ballroom together."

"True..."

Their conversation tapered off innocently each time they hit a check point. Each check point, seven in all, involved their limo being stopped, the engine cutting off, and each of them - driver included - stepping out to be identified and checked for weapons. The process was unnecessary and timely and frustrating. Piers had never been a patient man, but each stop made him more and more on edge. After their sixth stop, he was practically seething. Leon had to use some fancy word work to convince the security guard that, _yes_ , Piers had in fact been talking about how excited he was and, _no_ , he had not muttered "this is fucking ridiculous" when the guard had caught his mumbled, terse remark. When they climbed back into the limo, it had only taken one stern look for Piers to feel properly shamed. He didn't show it, his face a careful and indifferent mask, but he did manage to coax some better manners into himself before they reached the last checkpoint.

Which was probably the only useful checkpoint, in Piers' opinion, considering it involved them switching to a privately secured vehicle to be escorted the last bit of the way to the gala. With a security guard driving them instead of their government driver, Piers didn't feel safe enough to say what he was thinking, but he already knew with a quick, casual glance that the others were thinking it too.

There had been a lot of useless security, and useless security was only good for one thing - appearances. Which meant that something else was moving in the background to make security lax, and nothing good could possibly come from that. The fact that the black clad guardsmen were not readily identifiable to any known agency didn't help any either. They weren't BSAA, NSA, FBI, or CIA; so who were they? Despite their visible rifles and handguns, they felt more like an empty threat to Piers than anything else.

When their vehicle finally came to a halt outside the gala, Piers didn't have to pretend to be in awe of the mansion the event was being held at. It was huge, more expansive than any building he had seen outside of government control. The architecture was old, surely, but only in style. The actual building itself couldn't be more than a handful of years old - the wood work still gleaming and perfect, the paint still radiant, and the roofing still flawless. It glimmered brightly like a star against the cool night sky, the party lights twinkling through the numerous thin floor to ceiling windows that spanned most of the building. Even from out here on the lawn, he could make out the twirl of colorful dresses and the glimmer of wine glasses in gloved hands. The cost of the building allowing could have fueled nations; the cost of the party inside, another dozen at least.

A soft noise - the sound of Leon politely clearing his throat - caught his attention. With boyishly large eyes, he spun around just in time to see the older man casually tip his chin in the direction of the limo where Sheva was beginning to exit the vehicle. Without further prompting, Piers quickly fumbled out an apology as he offered his hand. She rolled her eyes at both of them, but accepted his help. Once she was out of the car, he offered his elbow.

With her hand tucked in his arm, the three of them gave each other a knowing look before starting the long trek up the stone walkway to the mansion. Although the security guard that had escorted them there left when they exited the limo, they kept their voices down as they spoke during this last moment of reprieve.

"Everyone remember their jobs?" Sheva asked.

"How could we forget? Hunnigan just about tattooed it to my eardrums," Leon said. There was a bit of grumpiness to his tone, but Piers could see the smile that spread across the other man's face, too. He wondered if something was there - but it didn't quite feel like romance, to him. Maybe sibling camaraderie...

He didn't get to think or say much more than that before they were at the door and being escorted into the mansion. The inside was just as elaborate as the outside. The hall that Erek Westbarl was hosting the gala in was more than extravagant, it was extreme. The ceilings arched at least four stories into the sky, held up in swooping arcs and crowning that all twirled up into a center point shaped elegantly like the sun. At its middle, a huge centerpiece dangled above them – easily as large as two stories in and of itself as it hung like a giant inferno amidst all the grand architecture. It was a series of glass plates, all of different sizes, all hanging at different lengths – the light reflecting off of them and onto one another in such harmony that it looked like a star caught from heaven and put in the heart Westbarl's mansion.

The hall itself was huge. It could house three of the largest convention halls Piers had ever been in easily. Colonnades framed the reception area, each one decorated with twirls of lights that fitted over the pillars like ivy, tiny twinkling lights peeking out from fake leaves. Rows of tables were spattered here and there throughout the hall, each covered with white linen so bright, they twinkled brightly in the dim gala area.

Piers had never seen anything like it. He had been to the weddings of good friends, the celebrations of badges of honor, and the funerals of exceptional men – and never had he seen anything so grandeur. He wrinkled his nose the slightest bit, but managed to hold back most of his disgust as he peeked over the shoulder of the body guard standing in front of them.

"Names, please."

He resisted the urge to protest; to tell the oafishly large man that manned this last and final checkpoint that they had already identified themselves at the past seven rendezvous points. Instead, he pulled the BSAA badge Hunnigan had created for him from his breast pocket and handed it over beside the ID that Sheva was holding out beside him. His cover was mostly true. It was his picture and he  _was_ with the BSAA. But Hunnigan crafted a cover ID for him given the nature of his current status with the organization. He doubted that National Security would approve of a BOW attending a gala specifically celebrating the doom of its species.

"Agent Benjamin Curtis of the BSAA, Protective Officer; and Branch Commander Sheva Alomar of the BSAA, dignitary of the African Branch," the guard said, his lips close to the radio attached to the inside of his wrist. He waited a moment, his eyes glazed slightly as he focused on whoever was on the other side of the line. Piers could count several ways in which he could easily bypass the overly obnoxious and useless security measures that they had encountered thus far, which didn't give him high hopes for a peaceful evening.

"Your identification has been approved," the man said. Piers couldn't help but mutter a soft, annoyed "again" beneath his breath, which earned him the stink eye from the security guard.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Piers said as he composed a professional, charming smile onto his face. "Which way to our table?"

"Not my job, buddy." The guard waved at them to pass, his eyes already onto the next potential terrorist as Sheva gently wound her arm into the younger man's elbow and led him into the gala.

"This is a joke," Piers whispered to her without breaking his small smile. She returned the smile in kind as she replied seriously, "This doesn't bode well."

Before they could get any further, two young women stopped them at the final arch leading into the reception area. In each of their hands was a slab of folded velvet. With nimble fingers, they both revealed the contents of the velvet to the BSAA agents, their smiles beautiful and plastic as they regarded them.

"Courtesy of Mr. Erek Westbarl. He asks that all attendees please wear these complimentary masks in honor of the evening's celebrations," one woman said, her voice smooth like butter and barren of thought – the words of a woman on autopilot, just trying to get through the night.

"The masks we are presenting you with are specifically designed to commemorate our brothers and sisters in the BSAA," the other woman said, her voice rich and mechanical as well. "As you will come to find throughout the night, every dignitary is wearing different masks in order for party-goers to identify their origins. We ask that you do not trade or remove your mask throughout the course of the gala. Mr. Westbarl will explain when it will be acceptable to remove your gift."

The two women then held the masks out to them. Both of the masks were cut to cover only half of the face – a small blessing, in Piers' opinion. Both masks were painted in BSAA green and framed in gold, the planes of the porcelain smooth and form fitting. Words were carved very lightly beneath either eye of both masks, the language Latin and nearly indistinguishable. Before he had a chance to ask the women what the words meant, they were being ushered forward into the reception area with a quick, "We thank you in advance for respecting the terms Mr. Westbarl has requested of you."

And then they were standing in a sea of silk dresses, black bow ties, and glossy masks. Piers had been to costume parties before, but the uniformly covered faces of porcelain and paint were disturbing here and now. Each mask soothed the expression from its owner's face, turning the gathering of celebrating people into a crowd of blank smiles and shadowed eyes. It was disconcerting and unsettling, putting Piers on edge. He couldn't identify anyone. He'd look at someone, look away for one second, and by the time he tried to look back – they were gone, consumed into the void of masks the reception area had become.

"How the hell are we going to pull this off when we can't see who we're looking for?" Piers whispered.

"Beats me. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to put a bunch of high ranking military and global officials into one room and give them masks. This goes against every bone in National Security's body," Leon said as he stepped up onto Piers' other side. His mask was already in place, black with gold trim. It made his eyes shine even brighter from within the pits of the eye holes. He smirked. "Glad it's not my job to find anyone. But I have plenty of faith in you two."

Piers shot the man a glower.

"Hunnigan's right. They're too many things off for this to be normal," Sheva said.

"Which means it's a good thing that we decided to come," the American agent said as he gently pulled a flute of champagne from a waiter walking by, his suave hands plucking the crystal glass from the platter without dislodging any of the other flutes. "You two enjoy the party. I have business to stick my nose in."

Piers watched as Leon strolled away, his body adopting a completely different element all unto itself as he walked through small clusters of party-goers and exchanged words with men he pretended to know. From behind, it was like watching a completely different man. Someone who belonged here, rubbing elbows with the world's finest. Piers almost couldn't recognize him.

"Come on," Sheva said as she squeezed his elbow lightly to get his attention. "We need to keep our eyes out for Westbarl and Jake."

When they got to their table, it was just as another man was leaving it – his smile polite despite the sick paleness of his skin as he excused himself. Piers didn't have a chance to catch much of the man's face, or at least whatever the mask would allow him to catch, but he did take note of the strong build of the man as he departed. Broad shoulders, compact frame, tall. Dark hair. Unfamiliar, in the end; it wasn't Jake. So he moved his attention unto the rest of the table.

There were two women already sitting at the table. One in a dark, velvety dress and the other in a simpler cut – both chattering excitedly about children. Upon Sheva's prying, the woman in the simple dress – Dr. Maria Houston, or so she introduced herself – explained that the other woman had just announced that she was with child. Piers gave her an awkward congratulations, unsure of what to say. He was used to locker talk. The sheer number of forks on the table before him was making him sweat. Why the hell would anyone need so many forks? Was he really going to need  _that many_ forks? He wasn't even sure if the far left thing was even big enough to be considered a spoon.

The pregnant woman was glowing from her skin with happiness, her smile plump and living on her face, but as Piers pulled out Sheva's chair for her to sit, he realized what it was about the woman that seemed so off. It was her eyes – dark and pale beneath her lashes; cool and shuttered tight. They weren't the eyes of a mother-to-be.

"My name is Sheva Alomar, I'm the representative of the African branch of the BSAA," he heard Sheva say distantly from beside him. "And this is Benjamin Curtis, my escort for the night. It's an honor to meet all of you. Have we missed much?"

"No, you haven't," the strange woman said, her polite smile infectious. "Well, actually that's not quite true, you did miss my husband. He's the director of the security firm that protected the facility where they created the cure."

"What does your mask mean?" Piers blurted out, interrupting the calm mood of their table talk with his less than friendly tone. Sheva looked at him sharply, but didn't reprimand him.

The blonde woman's fingers lingered lightly over her mask for a moment as if she had forgotten it, then smiled. "I believe the women in the front explained that it was gold to commemorate the importance of family. I'm not a representative of anything like you two, but I am my husband's "plus one". So I suppose anyone wearing the same mask as me is a family member or spouse. Isn't that right, Mr. Norton?"

The man she directed her question to bristled; Piers wasn't sure why.

"When my husband comes back, you'll see his. Dark blue, I think."

"Ah." Piers didn't feel like he had any more information than he did a moment ago, though. The idle chat picked up again after that. Sheva was far better at keeping their conversation afloat and aloof than he was. She spurred the conversation effortlessly; keeping the table's attention off of Piers as he discreetly looked around the gala.

He could see movement by the empty stage, a huddle of people talking. They weren't dressed quite as elegantly as the rest of the party-goers, so he could only assume that they were technicians assisting with the stage equipment. As they talked, one of them gestured a quick thumbs up to someone behind the stage where Piers couldn't see.

The lights all around them began to dim slowly. Piers scanned the rest of the ballroom to see if people would begin to take their seats, and as he did, he saw the man that had left their table advancing towards them. The man was in fact wearing a deep blue mask, just as his wife had said. Halfway to their table, the man stumbled – still looking a little too pale and a little too green for Piers' comfort. He watched as the woman's husband grabbed onto a nearby table to steady himself mere seconds before it was too dark to really see him anymore. Piers gently grabbed Sheva by her forearm, ready to point out the strange behavior when his attention was brought instead to the stage.

Westbarl was getting ready to speak, and Jake Muller was with him.

“There’s your objective,” Sheva whispered to him, her hand tight on his forearm.

“Right. And there’s yours,” he said. Something about his tone must have piqued her concern, because she looked at him fully at that moment.

“Leon told me about your history. Edonia and China… Is it going to be a problem?”

“You just worry about Westbarl,” Piers said, “I’ll handle _Subject Zero_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] Sorry it took forever! I know I say this every time, but if it's possible - work has gotten CRAZIER! We're coping with being understaffed and trying to train new people while keeping up with a heavy work load, so it's been hard to keep up with Both Sides of the Gun. I also kept losing my flash drive... But here's the good news! The next TWO chapters are nearly done! The bad news? The action didn't happen in this chapter...sorry! XD Also, sorry if this chapter lacks a bit of the normal luster - I was having a hell of time trying to get it to work.
> 
> Also, thank you everyone for all the kudos and support. <3


	19. Three Hours Earlier

**Three Hours Before the Gala | Secret Underground Facility**

The room that Wesker had ordered for him to wait in was structured much like a family room, eerily enough. The floor, couch, tables, lamps, and TV were all either white or black, contrasting against each other strikingly in the sharp-edged design of the room. He felt large and ungainly in the room. Even though he was wearing what he could only assume was a ridiculously expensive tuxedo, he felt out of place in the immaculate room. His shiny black shoes glimmered innocently as he walked across the room and turned on the TV. The news was already on. He fiddled apprehensively with his sleeve cuff as he watched.

On the screen, the African BSAA facility was in flames. The reporter, a young woman, was standing a safe distance away from where firefighters were tackling the flames peeling out from the wreckage of the familiar lobby.

"The fire started shortly after a biohazard was released unto the building. Thanks to the safety measures already in place, the contaminant was contained to the lobby where BSAA operatives were able to address and handle the infected. As of now, Co-Commander Joshua Stone has been able to confirm that the infection did not in fact spread over the walls of the facility. However, the damage that the lobby took was extreme. Moments after a small team departed the base, one of the remaining walls collapsed upon a fuel line running beneath the facility, causing an explosion that injured as many as 30 agents, and killed at least two. It is not yet clear if any more have been injured, and when asked to comment on the team that left the facility, Co-Commander Stone was unwilling to comment," she said.

Then the image of the African base shrank into a small box at the left hand corner of the screen, a thin red bar running behind it displaying other breaking news as the reporter continued onto the next story.

"As of right now, the BSAA and National Security are working together to address several other biohazards that have cropped up at numerous BSAA bases. It is not yet known whether or not this is the effort of a terrorist faction or an individual, but it is confirmed that in each case, the facilities were attacked by a suicide agent that injected themselves and the people around them with a small bomb composed of contaminated needles. Among the affected facilities are the BSAA bases in Africa, England, and Edonia, as well as several within the United States, including Texas, Ohio, South Carolina, and earlier in the week, DC.

"The President of the BSAA assures us that every precaution is being taken to prevent the outbreaks from spreading outside of the government facilities, and that their trained personnel are handling the incidents with no small amount of bravery and excellence. As of now, no biohazards have been reported outside of the bases."

Chris didn't bother to turn around when he heard the sharp step of two pairs of shoes approaching him. They came to a stop behind the couch, no doubt watching him, but the brunette ignored them in favor of trying to catch as much news as possible before the blond shut it off.

"In other news, Westbarl Industries has announced that the gala to introduce their cure to the market has been pushed up due to the recent acts of bioterrorism that have stricken the globe. In response, the United Nations and Westbarl Industries have done everything within their power to push their drug through the FDA process and into pharmacies across the globe. The drug is slated to go public within the next week, and international officials are scheduled to receive their doses at the gala tonight in celebration. Erek Westbarl, founder of the corporation responsible for creating the cure, had this to say earlier today via a web link established to his laboratories."

The feed then changed to that of a man wearing a surgical mask over the lower part of his mouth. His skin was pale and his hair a dark raven color. Two hazel colored eyes peered over the white mask, fierce and determined as the man spoke. His deep southern accent was slightly muffled from the mask, but still understandable as he gave his speech.

"In light of the tragic events delivered onto the BSAA, we have taken it upon ourselves to tie up the last loose ends regarding the matter of delivering our product to the public. With their support, the FDA has agreed to subject the cure to approval far sooner than originally intended. At midnight tonight, we will receive word of whether or not our treatment has been accepted for mass production, at which time we shall allow our international and national guests the chance to try the cure out for themselves while we watch the first shipments of our product take off for their destinations. Thanks to the strength of our international community, not simply as a collection of different ethnicities and cultures, but as one whole – the human race – we will come out of this fight the stronger. The beginning of the fall of bioterrorism starts tonight, my friends. For years we have relied upon the blood of young men and women to buy the safety of our future. Now it is time for us, those who have been standing on the sidelines for all these years, to do our part to end this war. And I assure you, it is ending."

The reporter returned to the screen.

"As we just saw, Erek Westbarl will be holding the gala tonight at his own estate at an undisclosed location somewhere along the east coast where national government leaders and international dignitaries will be meeting to celebrate the cure hitting the market. Little else has been released about the cure or the gala other than the cure will hit markets for public consumption soon, and that the gala with be a black tie and mask event – whether in honor of Mr. Westbarl himself who has never exposed the entirety of his face or in tribute of ridding the public of "monsters", it has not been confirmed. What we do know is that a cure is coming, and the dawn of the end of this war is here."

Just as the screen turned back to the efforts in Africa, a small icon appeared at the top corner of the screen saying "[MUTE]". The reporter's lips continued to move in a flurry, soundless and useless as Chris turned around just in time to see Wesker set down the controller. He was dressed in a sleek, dark suit – one that made him look even taller than he already was. His hair, however, hadn't changed, nor did he remove the sunglasses from his face. The sight of him in a suit after years of leather threw Chris off. Regardless, he did not let the scowl on his face wane as he glared at the man. Beside him, Jill stood like a trophy, one hand tucked into his arm like a prize. She was wearing a dress so dark, Chris couldn't quite tell if it was black, blue, or red. It was disorienting, changing beneath the light with each movement she made – sliding down her like water. It wasn't a promiscuous dress in the least. The cut of it trim and simple, allowing her enough movement to move without making the garment look ridiculous. Her long hair looked pale against the dark fabric and her skin even paler by comparison.

"I see you're all caught up then. Good," Wesker said as he moved his hand to sit over top of where Jill's hand was perched. Her hand looked so small and dainty beneath his, infuriating Chris as he took it in. "It's time for your first mission, Christopher. Our schedule has escalated a little sooner than I had anticipated, but I don't foresee this becoming a problem."

Chris had a sharp remark waiting on his tongue; the blond was crazy if he thought the BSAA agent was going to follow his orders tonight or any other night – but a thought made the words die in his mouth before he could say them. If he inspired any sort of ill confidence in Wesker about the nature of his ability to perform, the man would leave him behind. Staying meant he could look for something to give him the advantage while Wesker was gone, but going meant he could try and derail the mission from within. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Not that Chris was just going to roll over and take it, though. He narrowed his eyes and stuck his chin up with weary defiance.

"Are you sure you want to trust me with this?" The question was a precarious one. He had to make Wesker think nothing had changed in his motives for this to work. He hoped the blond was as full of himself as his clone had been in Africa.

"As I said before, would I use the methods that I am if I did not have full confidence that you would join me, Christopher? You will carry out your objective to the letter, I have no doubt of that."

Chris did his part to look offended. It didn't take much coaxing to manage. A smug flicker lit up in Wesker's eyes as he regarded him.

"I'm guessing by the dress, we're going to that gala?" Chris asked.

"Yes, but it's so much more than that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] For formatting, I am posting part of my next installment in two chapters (both which will be posted tonight), so don't worry about the shortness of this chapter - the next installment is coming right on its heels in the next hour or so!


	20. Overwhelmed and Overrun

**The Gala**

The moment he entered the ballroom, he felt pain blossom behind his eyes and in his ears. There were a thousand smells, lights, sounds, sensations – all cascading upon him from every angle. In the cool, dark, silent depths of Wesker's facilities, Chris hadn't been exposed to much stimuli. Now, he felt moderately overwhelmed by it. Jill's cold hand at his forearm felt like a lead weight, a reminder of who he was with and why they were there. She glanced at him, but not out of concern. She was cataloguing his reactions, memorizing his every move, no doubt to relay to Wesker later. She was a living, breathing audio and video recorder – Wesker's little robot.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment as the security guards looked at their invitations. Chris feared for a moment that they would recognize them from news reports that had no doubt been released after the DC incident, but the guards just waved them through. He gave them a suspicious look, but Jill was already pulling him away to where two women awaited them. Unlike with the other attendants, these women merely passed them their masks without another word – their smiles as fake as the masks they held. Chris couldn't quite ignore the fact that this wasn't normal. Other people were spoken to, informed about the events of the gala, and given instructions about the night.

And here they were, passing through the party like ghosts. He wondered if the staff they had run into thus far were in on it. It was the only explanation he could think of, but he had never known Wesker to work with such a large network of people before. The more people there were, the more loose ends there were; the more possibilities for failure. It didn't feel like his MO, and yet there had to be a reason no one had stopped them even once. Chris and Jill will hardly famous, but they were prominently known among the BSAA – probably even more well-known if the Director had released any information about them on the news after DC.

"Why aren't we being stopped?" He asked Jill. When she didn't immediately respond, he turned back to look at her and was flabbergasted by the large, stunning smile that awaited him. It was a smile he had seen many times since Africa. It took a while to coax it out of her, but she learned to smile again. At jokes, at sunrises and sunsets, at the crazy antics of their young recruits – at him. Seeing it now, lighting up her robotic face and usually lobotomized expressions, he realized that Jill didn't just betray him on that rooftop. She had never actually  _been there_  at all.

Her smile wiped away any questions he had about the security issues they had run into.

She looked like a happy wife on his forearm, the wedded woman of some important dignitary, ready to support him and his career. It was too surreal, made further so when she opened her smiling lips to speak with her cool, emotionless voice. She dipped her chin in towards him while she spoke, her dull voice a whisper so that between the smiling and the intimate distance, they looked for all the world like a happy couple and not the two terrorists Wesker intended them to be.

"I will be watching you the entire time," she said. She tilted her head back then, smile even larger, but he could see the cold hard truth in her eyes. She would attack him in Wesker's name without a problem; regardless of what he was now and that she didn't stand a chance. It took everything in him to hide the scowl from his face, and even more to hide the hurt. He just exchanged a small smile with her instead and growled through his quirked lips, "Watch all you like."

He could remember saying that to her once under other circumstances. The memory stuck to his heart like a barb.

But her control never faltered. She giggled softly, and then leaned towards him a little more as she pointed out their table and pulled him towards it. She appeared to know more about what they needed to do than he did, so he let her lead. The small talk they had to go through in order to sit amidst a bunch of strangers was painful. To their right was the scientist responsible for the mental health of Patient Zero, the boy with whom she went on to explain was responsible for the basis of the cure. Beside her was her husband, a lawyer and seemingly annoyed with having his profession be upstaged by that of his wife's success. To their left was an older gentlemen, his accent thick and his language even stranger. Jill knew it, of course. The man's dialect flowed over her tongue like the language was her own. Chris wondered if she had always known how to speak it, or if it was yet another thing that Wesker added while he was remodeling the woman to his liking.

She touched him gently at his arm and murmured, "That is Dr. Van Weissen. He was one of the liaisons between the American and European effort to create the vaccine."

Chris gave the man a falsely impressed smile and a little nod of respect, lacking the words or the know how to congratulate him on making it to the gala that would likely kill him. The two chairs directly across from their own were empty. When their table mates asked, Jill handled conversing about their reason for attending the gala.

"My husband served as the director of the security firm detailed to protect Subject Zero. There were a lot of long, sleepless nights," she said warmly as she rubbed his arm with her fingers, "But it was worth it. I'm sure you can all relate."

Chris felt like he was wearing another man's skin, sitting next to another man's wife in another man's life. It made something in his heart squeeze painfully. He placed one hand over hers, just to calm her fingers. The constant brush of her touch was more painful than holding her still. It made him forget that nagging anxiety that wondered how Wesker thought he'd be able to parade around as someone so important without being caught – the director of Subject Zero's safety. Surely such an individual does exist, so what will happen when he or she arrives only to find their seat taken?

Before his emotional or mental turmoil could boil over, a waiter set a champagne flute in front of each of them, as well as offered a selection of alcoholic beverages. Chris politely declined to make an order, and Jill inferred that she was pregnant, which only served to make Chris even more unsettled as a chorus of congratulations – in English or otherwise – erupted around the table and from the staff attending to them. She smiled shyly, her large lashes dark against her light skin.

It was a good lie. It effectively explained why either of them wouldn't drink rather than making them look suspicious or paranoid for choosing to decline the free bar. She was pregnant, and of course, he was supporting her by choosing to abstain as well. Regardless of its effectiveness, he was 100% sure that Wesker had contrived that secret little detail of their cover just to torture him. Chris excused himself politely and hurried to the restrooms with a little more gusto than necessary, but not before he heard the psychologist ask Jill if they knew the gender yet. He didn't stick around to find out.

He felt sick. Between the sounds of a thousand murmurings and the accumulated scents of a hundred different fragrances, he felt stifled. He was surrounded on all sides by the mortal coil of humanity, painfully aware that all of them were going to die. If the bomb or virus or whatever Wesker had planned didn't take them tonight, a number of other things would. One gentleman he passed on the way to the bathroom had a sluggish heartbeat – his blood unable to pump through the constricted veins bacon and high cholesterol had blessed him with. Another woman had the faint scent of something wrong to her musk, and Chris realized with a shock that he could  _smell_ the cancer growing inside of her. Once he identified the cause, her thin hair and frail nature became painfully obvious to him. Humans, everywhere – all in various stages of dying.

And what was left of Jill was talking about life.

The bathroom door collided heavily with his palms. If it splintered very slightly upon impact with the wall, Chris made sure to pretend like he didn't notice. His sudden outburst made the other man standing at a urinal jump mid business. The look Chris gave him, even despite the fact that the mask made him look ridiculous, was all the stranger needed to zip up and rush out of the bathroom. Once alone, he braced his hands against the marble sink and took a deep breath.

The bathroom was quiet. The lighting here was softer, the air untouched by the bodies heating the air outside. Despite the dark brown of his contacts, glimmers of glowing blue light were spilling through them. His agitation was apparent, he couldn't handle this – and Jill knew it. She would tell Wesker everything that happened at that table, and he would smile knowingly. The next clench of his fingers inspired a hairline fracture to spark like lightning through the marble beneath his hands. He pulled away, surprised and then frustrated.

"What the hell am I doing?" He muttered.

"That's a very good question," a feminine voice said from behind him, followed by the turning of the bathroom door's lock.

Had the voice belonged to Jill or anyone else, he would have turned to face them calmly. But he knew that voice. His fingers nearly shattered the marble upon hearing it. Her words had haunted him back in China all the way until the moment he had watched her fall several stories to her final, gory breath.  _"Given your track record, Chris, I'd hate to be a part of your team."_

"Ada?!"

She stood behind him, all long creamy legs and slinky red dress. Her hair was longer than he remembered, her face a little older. She fingered one errant lock of hair behind her ear with a shy, devious smile.

"You remember me. I'm flattered."

He took a snarling step forward, ready to crush her into the bathroom tile with more force than several stories worth of gravity had been able to manage back in China when she held up one hand, her thumb pressed delicately against the button of a detonator.

"A dead man's trigger, Agent Redfield. Let's not do anything hasty."

Well, that at least answered one question for him. She wasn't infected within anything that would bring her back if he killed her. Why else would she arm herself with a dead man's trigger? No, she could die. So why the hell  _wasn't_  she dead?

"I don't know if you missed the company memo blast or something, but I don't think your bomb is going to hurt me," he growled as he took another step forward.

"Who said that the bomb was anywhere near here?" She smiled, nonplussed. It made Chris' feet freeze to the floor.

"What do you want?"

Triumphant, Ada began to circle the brunette, taking him in as she did so. She brushed her fingers over the cut of his suit, across his slightly slimmer shoulders, over his trimmed biceps, and rested one hand on his chest.

"Despite the saying, I've never quite managed to curb my curious nature. I wanted to see how he changed you for myself," she said. He didn't dare move, lest it inspire her finger to loosen on the device. He just waited patiently, muscles tensed and screaming for violence as she set her smooth, delicate hand against his cheek and removed his mask. Her eyes were piercing, and he knew then and there that she could see every change, even his eyes hidden beneath his boring contacts. Her fingers stroked the places on his face that wrinkles once called home. "Amazing."

"Are you done?" The words hissed through his teeth like air through a punctured tire.

She took a moment longer to evaluate him before replacing the mask meticulously. When she was done, she took a step back to regard him. Satisfied, she let out a delicate hum and said, "Not quite, but unfortunately, I do have another appointment to keep… I did see what I needed to see, though." She smiled. "Albert didn't lie, for once."

Lie? Lie about what? About the effects of the virus? About Chris?

Despite the questions dangling on his lips, Ada gave him a knowing look before he could even voice them. She wouldn't answer and they both knew it. She was so like her boss that way, Chris thought furiously as he watched her walk backwards to the bathroom door, trigger raised to remind him of their situation. She was a glutton for secrets like dragons loved gold, and just as bloody protective of them. With a wink, she unlocked the door with one hand behind her back and slipped out of the bathroom like nothing happened. Chris immediately shot forward, but by the time he made it back out into the ballroom, she was gone – just another shape among a hundred different scents and voices.

"Damn it!"

His outburst surprised the waiter that tried to slide past him, eyes wide as Chris discreetly muttered an apology. He whirled back to continue in the direction he was originally heading only to stumble into a short, older gentlemen - his scent full of impending death in his old age. Chris gagged, hands scrambling to cover his nose as the man passed by. Face scrunched up rudely, he waited until he had some room before taking in a deep, cleansing breath. With a wry, frustrated moment, Chris considered that for all of his training, Wesker hadn't prepared him for this – for how overwhelming it would be to be among so many human beings. Maybe he never intended to.

Chris shook his head, trying to will down the surging queasiness in his belly. He put his mind on something else – the mission. Jake. And if Jake was here, no doubt Sherry was not far behind him. All he needed to do was find Sherry and Jake, and warn them. Once he did, they could start to take measures to discretely evacuate the room while he kept himself between Westbarl and Jill. With that thought, he started to walk towards the table where he could keep an eye on Jill while he scanned the room. But for every step he took, nausea grew in his stomach. It began with a twist of fluttery apprehension in guts, quickly followed by the actual flowering of pain in his body. The feeling grew, making his skin feel cold and his muscles feel like tightly wound string. He stopped halfway, one hand on a nearby table as he took a breath. A passing waiter gave him a funny look, but let him be. Someone passing by said something concerned to him, but their lips and voice were disconnected, so he waved them off.

Chris tried to think of what could be happening. The suddenness of the symptoms made him consider illness, but he was supposed to be immune to this sort of shit. It couldn't be poison – not that he even drank anything. Maybe it was simply the exposure to so much stimuli? He took a deep breath, determined to just man his way through it, but the moment he brought his goal clearly into his mind again to go warn Jake and Sherry, the sensation increased two-fold.

It was his thoughts. Thoughts to disobey Wesker. The revelation made his skin grow even colder, perspiration building up at his brow as he realized that whatever connection their minds shared wasn't just something they could turn on and turn off. On some level, the virus must be sentiently aware of his wishes versus the wishes of the other BOW.

Before he could summon the will to pull himself together and stop alarming so many tables with his stumbling, the lights suddenly dimmed, cooling the pressure in his eyes as two spotlights flickered onto the stage at the front of the room. An older woman was standing there, her dress bland and professional as she smiled at the crowd. With his attention momentarily diverted, the pain began to recede. The terror in his belly, however, did not.

"Thank you all for coming here tonight," she said, "It's truly an honor to be among the many distinguished international minds that have brought us here today. Without them, we would have no reason to indulge in such a grandiose party."

The crowd chuckled, polite laughs tinkling as she raised one hand to quell them.

"But in all seriousness, there has not been a reason for a party in ages as honorable or worthwhile as this one. Tonight marks the day that humanity stood together and destroyed one of the most commonly used weapons terrorists utilize today – bioterrorism." A chorus of clapping gave the women a moment of pause before she continued, one hand raised to the side of the platform as she said, "None of which would have possible without the two men of the hour, so without further adieu I introduce to you the heroes of this gala, Mr. Erek Westbarl and Mr. Jake Wesker."

Chris felt Wesker's son coming before he ever saw him, and that terrified him even more. His condition was far worse than he thought.

And Wesker knew it all along.


	21. The King's Speech

 

People rose from their chairs, blending Chris in with the crowd of clapping hands as he stared at the stage with saucer plate-wide eyes. As soon as Jake stepped foot on stage, Chris knew him. Not by his face or the familiar, scowling demeanor of his posture, but by the sheer, overwhelming sense of kinship that floored him on sight. It was the same, excited twisting feeling he had gotten back on the rooftop in DC, but more than that, Chris had felt it before – without Wesker – in Edonia, and again in China. A light sheen of goose-bumps rose on his flesh when he realized that the reason Jake had seemed so familiar when they first met was because  _he had been familiar._ By comparison, the feeling had been watered down in contrast to how seeing Jake now felt, but it had been there all the same, even when he was human.

_"Have we met?"_

_"You Jarheads all look the same to me, pal, sorry."_

It was as if Jake were not a man he had only met once or twice, but rather one of his very own men; one of his boys on the team. The feeling was so fierce, so strong, that it took a moment for him to realize that there was no basis for the feeling other than the fact that he and Jake shared something no one else in that room did.

Antibodies. Wesker's antibodies.

There had been no time to connect with him in China, not like this. There was no reason for Chris to feel as though he knew the kid as closely as he did one of his soldiers, like Piers or Finn. It wasn't memories or any human emotion driving this feeling. It was the virus, singing out to like-blood. Singing out to the little bits of Wesker that had been passed onto his son, and realizing that only reminded him of the larger problem at hand – his overpowering connection with Wesker.

Jake walked across the stage side by side with a man that would have been taller than him if he didn't slouch. Both were wearing suits, crisp and sleek against their figures as they approached the podium. The medical mask that Westbarl had been wearing in his report was still present, but he wore no porcelain mask to match the crowd. His eyes crinkled merrily from above the paper-thin mask as he took in his audience. Jake did not look quite as comfortable by contrast, and he wasn't wearing a mask at all.

His hair had grown out a bit, as if he had lost the presence of mind to keep up with his old, closely buzzed look. Otherwise, he looked the same as he had in China. Same scar, same harsh eyes. The suit was new, an odd garment that looked nice, but didn't exactly look  _right_ on the ex-mercenary. He didn't fit and he knew it. From the moment he came into view, Chris had immediately trained his eyes on him.

As Westbarl stepped forward to the mic, hands waving to his applauding audience, something flashed in Jake's eyes. He turned his attention from Westbarl to the crowd, searching for something. His uneasy posture quickly changed from "I don't want to be here" to alert. With the way his eyes were squinting, the BSAA agent knew the other man couldn't see anything beyond the harsh glare of the spotlights, but regardless, Chris knew what he was looking for. His skin sang with it. Jake had felt the bond too, and he was looking for the source of the out of place feeling. He was looking for Chris.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Westbarl said, his southern accent thick and charming as it boomed out from the speakers with too much enthusiasm. The mic squealed unpleasantly, and the CEO of Westbarl Industries held his hands up in apology as people winced at the noise. Chris felt the shrill note pierce his ears like a gunshot, making his eyes roll sickly for a moment until the noise ended and he could right himself again. The silence of the expecting crowd was a blessing, after that. "My apologies. I hope I haven't deafened anyone. Although that might be for the best, I'm really not the best speaker anyway.

"It is really my very great honor to have you all here with me tonight, both my distinguished guests," he said, and then gestured to the cameras setup all around the room, "And to those of you at home, the people with whom the inspiration for this endeavor derives from. Tonight we toast to many things. To the minds that overcame social boundaries to create this vaccination, to the young man who offered himself and his time for months to humor our very many tests, and to the brave men and women – soldiers and civilians alike – that we have lost to bioterrorism. Above all else, I toast tonight to them."

The crowd erupted into a flurry of claps, and Westbarl waited patiently for them to end. The skin around his eyes wasn't so smiley anymore; instead drawn tight with slight pain, like a wince after being reminded of an old, forgotten wound. When the applause died down, he let the silence hang for a moment before continuing.

"I toast to them this evening in no small part due to my own misfortunes. I am not so humble a man as to deny that. Since we unveiled the actual concept of my company, many people have asked me where I drew my motivation from. A private company that rose from no scientific background to back the financial stability for a cure of such magnitude – I admit, it's unusual. After all, I used to sell sports equipment. Hardly the stuff that constitutes becoming the backbone of a scientific corporation."

And then, on the screen behind the man, a picture appeared. A young woman beamed back from the screen, cherry blond hair twisted into a thick braid that spilled over her shoulder. Her eyes twinkled charmingly from the photo, vibrant despite the flatness of the screen. Westbarl took a moment to turn around and look up at the screen before letting out a very short hitch of breath and turning back to his audience.

"Mary, my wife. She was in Raccoon City visiting her family on the night of the incident. I was away on business. She and her family managed to barricade themselves into their home, but it wasn't enough. She called me in those final hours. I was on the phone with her until the very end," he said, then stopped to swallow, the noise amplified by the mic. With a small grunt, he shifted his weight and continued, "Tonight is for them. For the people who should be here with us, but aren't. Victims of viral corruption and human limitations…

"You've no doubt wondered why I had each of you put on a mask on your way in. I apologize for my little eccentricities, but I found it suitable, given the situation. Many of you probably think it is because of the mask that I myself cannot take off," he said, gesturing to his face, "but my own degenerating medical conditions are neither the reason behind my motivation for this endeavor, nor your masks. Tonight, at midnight, as we celebrate the first shipment leaving from the docks of this very estate, we will remove our masks to symbolize humanity overcoming death and bioterrorism. We will face the dawn of a new age together, my friends. An age of peace and human prosperity."

Applause exploded again, in earnest. When it dimmed, Westbarl finished by saying, "Until then, please feel free to mingle among yourselves. Enjoy the night, enjoy the good company, and by all means, please enjoy the bar. It's on the house." As the guests rose from their chairs, a little murmuring of conversation already beginning to grow into a smeared buzz of noise, Chris watched as Westbarl leaned up into Jake and shook the man's hand. He was saying something very animatedly to the mercenary, but with all the conversations washing over him from every side, Chris couldn't manage to pick out his words from the tide. Whatever he said, it made Jake look flustered. He stiffly said something back, and then walked off the stage with the man. At the bottom of the stairs, they took their separate ways – Westbarl headed to a group of stuffy looking people and Jake off in the opposite direction.

Chris' gaze followed Jake's intended path all the way to what he knew was the man's goal – Sherry Birkin. He had been right, the NSA agent was here. She was wearing a nice black dress that gave her just enough room to move fast if she needed to. Coupled with her black flats, Chris knew that Sherry wasn't simply here to support Jake. She was here on business, if the almost indistinguishable lump at her thigh was anything to go by.

When Jake reached her, he immediately looked relieved. Tension oozed free from his body as she placed one hand at his elbow and leaned towards him, her smile kind. No doubt telling him he did a great job standing there doing nothing on stage. Not that Chris blamed him, even if all you had to do was stand there, being noticed for being you – being on stage in front of a bunch of people who didn't even understand who you were or what you did was never fun. Jill usually had to drag him kicking and screaming.

Which reminded him…

He turned his gaze discreetly to the side to see Jill conversing with a small group of people just one congregations shy of where Westbarl was talking. She met his eyes over the shoulder of the person she was talking to and gave him a pointed look. The look could only mean one thing. She knew he had located Jake, and she was making it obvious that if he didn't handle the mercenary, she would.

* * *

Weaseling his way into the underbelly of the mansion had been child's play; far easier than it had any right to be, considering the importance of the gala. And yet, Leon had managed to slip through various throngs of dignitaries, swipe a keycard, sneak past security, and find the central computer all without spilling his drink. He sipped it gently as he clicked away, fingers stumbling over the keys as he slipped past one internal security system, and then another, and then another, until finally all the information lay bare before him.

As document after document poured onto the screen, he slipped a small case from his breast pocket and opened it to reveal a set of contacts. At first glance, they didn't seem to be very special, but on closer inspection Leon could see all of the whisper thin chips and technology embedded in the lenses, causing them to glow a gentle blue as they activated upon his touch. Gingerly, he placed both contacts on his eyes and blinked away his agitated tears until finally he could see again.

"God, I don't know how people ever get used to putting in contacts every day," he muttered, then asked a little louder. "Hunnigan, you getting this?"

"Yes, the signal is strong. We've got a stable picture," she said into his ear piece. "Are you sure this is it?"

"Yup, this is it. If Westbarl's hiding anything, it's in here."

He could hear her shift on the other end of the line, no doubt leaning closer to her monitor as she read the screen through the camera feed in his contact lenses.

"This can't be right… According to this –"

"– Everything's normal, yeah. I know." He didn't voice it, but his thoughts were apparent in his tone. The night was looking more and more like a wild goose chase. If it weren't for all the odd things, like the lacking security, Leon would've called it a day already. But he had learned long ago that Hunnigan was a "by the books" agent. If something was bothering her enough for her to listen to her gut – it was important.

"So it's not here," Leon said, "Doesn't mean it's not  _here._ Tell me what to do, Hunnigan. Is there some hidden firewall or –"

"Talking to yourself," a voice said from behind. "You're a bit young for that, don't you think?"

Leon froze without actually looking tense. He poised himself, fully aware of the owner of that particular voice, and treated the situation as delicately as it deserved. Slowly, he peeked over his shoulder and smiled.

"Ada. It's been a long time." It was as much a greeting for the sleek looking woman behind him as it was a warning to Hunnigan to keep quiet.

She was beautiful; her long red dress slinky and immaculate as it hugged her body from just below the knee all the way to her breastbone. The slit in her dress gave her the freedom of movement he knew she would need given her career, and also provided her ample access to the gun he knew she had tucked away. He made a show of sizing her up from head to foot, taking his time when he took in her long, silky legs. He smiled wolfishly at her, as was their game, and she smiled slyly right back.

"You won't find what you're looking for, Leon," she said.

"I don't know about that. I think I will."

She rolled her eyes and made her way across the room, hips swaying delicately as she held out one hand to him. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"You asking me to dance? I'm flattered."

"The earpiece, Leon," she said, her voice tinged with as much amusement as annoyance.

"Leon, don't!" Hunnigan began, but he pulled the little bud from his ear before she could say anything else. He could hear the tinny sound of her speaking, garbled and small as he muttered a quick "sorry" into the mic and dropped the device into Ada's waiting hand. She dropped it disdainfully and crushed it beneath her heel mere seconds later.

He sighed, thinking about how Hunnigan would chew him out for losing the expensive bit of equipment just as Ada smiled in satisfaction.

"There, just you and me," she said as she slipped past him to look at the monitor. Leon huffed.

"You're not very good at sharing, you know," he said.

"You like it," she said simply with a wave of one hand before gesturing to the screen. "You're looking in the wrong place."

"Oh am I?"

With a slight bump of one hip, she moved him over so she could have room to type. In comparison to the way his fingers had stumbled over the keys, hers elegantly flitted from key to key like a pianist. Firewalls he hadn't even seen were cleaved in two like the Red Sea, each and every one falling beneath the wrath of her keystrokes until finally only one folder lay in front of them. It was titled "A/W-J: Serum 201 / Ready".

"This is what you're really looking for," she said, her lips curved with egotistically pleasure. "Or at least, this is what you should have been looking for from the start."

"How did you find it?" Leon asked with a small tinge of awe. She had accomplished in seconds what he had failed to do in twenty minutes.

"It helps when you know the man who made it."

He looked over at her, unwilling to prematurely voice what he already knew to be true.

"What is this?"

"The reason why I'm here."


	22. Three's a Crowd

Chapter 22: Three's a Crowd

So trying to keep his status as a formerly dead BSAA soldier kind of flew out the window the moment Jake spotted him. Piers opened his mouth to greet them, his false identity at the tip of his tongue, only for the other man to cut him off with a harsh, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Jake!" Sherry admonished him, but her cry of displeasure did nothing to put out the glaring match she now found herself in the middle of.

The outburst caught the attention of a number of nearby party-goers. Piers felt a burst of red hot anger crawl up the back of his neck as he slowly retracted the hand he had outstretched for appearance's sake. He tried to hold back the snarl that threatened to twist up his face as he glared the ex-mercenary down with a painfully fake smile.

"My name is Agent Benjamin Curtis, and I'm here as a representative of the BSAA," Piers said as politely as he could between tightly clenched teeth.

"Huh, funny," Jake said as a shit eating grin spread across his face. "You look  _just like_ this dead guy I know."

"Well as you can see, I'm breathing - so I'm not him. Sorry to hear about your friend."

"Don't be. He wasn't my friend," Jake baited, making Piers take a few angry steps forward. If not for Sherry's gentle hands at each of the men's chests to ground him, Piers might not have stopped. As it was, he hovered as close to Jake as Sherry's grasp would allow and jabbed a furious finger in his direction.

"You know, you're a real piece of work," Piers said. "I can't imagine what side of the family you got that from."

The tension between them immediately bled out into a cold sheet of fury. The moment the words slipped from his mouth, Piers knew them for the mistake that they were. But admitting that would be giving Jake ground that Piers wasn't willing to give, so he just stared the enraged redhead down as the man positively seethed before him. The focus in Jake's pale eyes was unsettling.

Jake opened his mouth, but Sherry cut him off with a quiet, "Jake, don't."

It wasn't an order so much as a quiet plea. If it had been anyone else, Piers knew those two words would've slid through one ear and out the other. But Sherry was the one asking, so Jake stopped.

Instead, he bit out a soft, "I'm going to grab a drink," to Sherry and turned on heel to hunt down whatever waiter was unfortunate enough to cross his path first. The two of them watched him go as he indelicately shoved his way through a small gathering of party-goers, earning a chorus of startled exclamations as he did. Piers didn't need to look at Sherry's face to feel the shame already building in his chest. Although Jake hadn't been innocent in their spat, Piers was older and better tempered than the redhead. He knew better.

"Sherry, I – "

"Come on, Agent Curtis," she cut him off gently, then wound one arm through his and began to lead him away. Already cowed by his earlier behavior, Piers did not object when they suddenly found themselves in the middle of the dance floor. Skirts twirled around them pleasantly as couples of every skill level passed them by on all sides. Sherry placed both her hands at his shoulders, and Piers hesitantly followed suit by moving his hands politely to her waist. He cleared his throat, unused to dancing, but managed to set a decent lead all the same.

"He doesn't know," Sherry said.

"About what?"

"Anything. He's been underground in testing facilities for months. He was only officially released yesterday. He doesn't know about you or Chris. He doesn't… He doesn't know about his father."

Piers leveled her with a shocked stare.

"You didn't tell him?"

"I haven't exactly had time, and if I told him that his father might show up tonight… He's already in enough danger without him actively looking for it."

They kept their voices hushed, their faces tucked close to one another so no one might overhear. Piers glanced this way and that for anything suspicious, and when he returned his gaze to Sherry, he noticed that during their entire dance so far, she had never taken her eyes off of Jake for more than a few seconds. She trusted Piers to watch her back while she watched Jake's.

"If you already knew he might show, why come?" He asked.

"I don't know for sure, it's just a feeling," Sherry said. "But when I brought my concerns before the NSA, they dismissed them due to lack of evidence. Albert Wesker died in a volcano after all. Even though I believe you saw exactly who you said you saw atop that building in Washington, they don't. And orders are orders, so here we are."

"Here we are," Piers agreed softly. He could see the raw frustration in her eyes. They shouldn't be there. Jake and Sherry should be bunkered down somewhere safe, not in the middle of a gala just waiting to get attacked. The fact that the NSA wouldn't back her up was as disheartening as it was suspicious. Stranger things had happened than a man surviving a volcano. After all, Simmons transformed into a freaking dinosaur made out of putrid, rotting flesh. Wesker surviving wasn't really that far out there by comparison.

"It's a relief to hear that the BSAA is investigating into this, though," Sherry said. "I was afraid no one would."

"The BSAA isn't investigating," Piers admitted softly. Despite the weight of their conversation, they continued to glide smoothly across the dance floor. Piers thanked whatever luck he still had that the music was slow and simple to dance to.

"Then why are you here?"

"One of Leon's contacts had reason to believe that something big is going to go down tonight. She believes that Wesker and Westbarl are somehow involved. The BSAA is busy dealing with the biohazard attacks that hit a couple of our bigger bases. The Secret Service wouldn't sanction the mission either, so Leon snowballed it in with our current objective. Unofficially, of course."

"Unofficially is better than nothing, I guess," Sherry sighed, her body language suddenly uneasy.

"Sheva Alomar is currently trying to speak with Westbarl. It was my job to warn you two and get you out."

Sherry paused.

"Do you actually have evidence of foul play?" Sherry asked.

"Leon's working on it, but Hunnigan must have found something. From what Leon tells me, she isn't really an 'off the books' kind of agent," Piers said, then tightened his grip ever so slightly. "You two need to go, with or without the a-okay. Just in case."

Sherry bit her lip gently, her blue eyes on Jake. Piers tilted his gaze a bit so he could see him too. The young man was still fuming across the room as he watched them dance with glaring eyes. Noticing their watchful gaze, Jake set down his empty champagne flute only to snatch another from a beautiful waitress passing by. Piers couldn't see the woman's face from where he danced, but he could only assume that she must have winked or something, because Jake's anger suddenly disappeared between an expression of surprise and amused interest. He set down the flute to follow her, and if his smirk and wry glance their way was anything to go by, he did it just to spite them.

"Jake," Sherry hissed under her breath.

Piers wanted to ask if the couple was okay, surprised by Jake's sudden flirtatious and callous exit, but knew there was no time. Instead, he took a careful step back and allowed Sherry's hands to gently slip from the shoulders of his expensive suit.

"You should go," he said, then pulled a small ear-bud from his pocket. "Here's a communicator. You can reach any of us with it. Call if there's trouble."

"Thank you," she said, then smoothly disappeared between the swiftly dancing bodies all around them in pursuit of her charge. Piers stood there a moment and watched her go until he lost sight of her in the crowd. Once gone, he politely excused himself from the dance floor and ducked behind a pillar where he could take stock of their mission.

"Leon, you there?" He murmured softly.

No response. Piers frowned.

"Leon, do you read?"

Static.

"He's been unresponsive for some time now," Sheva said suddenly, her voice carrying clearly over the transmission.

"How long?"

"Hard to say," Sheva replied. Piers scanned the crowd but couldn't find her. "Just because he isn't among party-goers doesn't mean he's free to talk though. He'll have a number of security measures to sneak around down there."

"True. Any luck with Westbarl?"

"No. He seemed uninterested in our worries... and distracted. You?"

"Jake is as obstinate as ever, but Sherry's dealing with it. They're leaving now."

Sheva let out a small sigh of relief. "Small mercies."

"So what next?" Piers asked.

"We wait for word from Leon," Sheva said, "And hope nothing happens."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N] Hello friends! I'm so, so sorry for the wait. Seriously. Things have been more than hectic between overtime at work, school restarting, interviews, and a new internship. I also apologize for how brief this chapter is, but I wanted to post something today while I had free time. I also have the next segment planned out, so hopefully I'll have it prepared by tomorrow night (that's my goal, at least). Thank you all again for your support and patience. I love writing this story and I have no intention of quitting. :)


	23. Reunion

Chapter 23: Reunion

"We wait for word from Leon," Sheva said, "And hope nothing happens."

Piers caught a final glimpse of Sherry through the crowd, far away now, her gaze darting every which way as she looked for Jake. Surely he couldn't have gotten far in such a small amount of time, Piers though. But even from his place on the other side of the grand ballroom, he could see the downward quirk of Sherry's lips; the crease at her brow small and misplaced on her otherwise young face.

"Sheva, do we have eyes on Muller?" Piers asked suddenly, his gaze caught on Sherry.

"No," she said. "I thought you said Sherry was on it?"

"I did," Piers said, shuffling through party guests to get a better view. "It's probably nothing."

"Piers, what's - "

The transmission in his ear broke then, the sound of feedback harsh and spitting, making Piers flinch.

"Sheva?"

All around the room, he could see security personnel cringe, hands at their ears in pain. One quick look across the room showed that Sherry had done the same, her face a mixture of displeasure. This was it, he realized, just as Westbarl stepped up to the podium once again, the screen behind him changing from the visage of his former wife to that of the various shipment trucks waiting for his order from an undisclosed location.

"Alas my friends, although the journey has been a long and arduous one filled with much strife and loss - we are finally here. As we near the stroke of midnight, let us all raise our glasses in honor of the lost, as well as the future," Westbarl said. Around them, glasses lifted high, their contents shimmering like diamonds in the low light of the ballroom. "Five!"

Across the room, he could see Sheva trying to wade her way to the front unsuccessfully. A glance back to Sherry and... she was with someone. A man. A large man, in fact. Tall and familiar despite the mask across his face. They were talking animatedly to one another, both obviously concerned about something, and then the man pointed at something across the room. Piers followed his finger - the crowd blurring before him - until he caught the coat tails of a blazer and a red dress disappearing into a corridor.

"Four!"

The man was surging forward now, his large hands shoving people aside when they wouldn't move. But even so, Piers could not hear the commotion the man made over top the sound of the cheering crowd and chanting numbers.

"Three!"

At the front of the ballroom, Sheva was being held back by startled looking security guards; multiple hands at her biceps as she urgently spoke to them - her lips moving soundlessly against the ballroom's excitement.

"Two!"

Piers was moving now, his position closer to the corridor than that of Sherry or the man. Whatever was going on, those two people from the corridor were involved. Sherry wouldn't forgo looking for Jake if they weren't.

"One!"

He was a quarter way there were the speakers all blew out, the feedback from the explosion at the shipment yard too raw and overwhelming for the stereo system to handle. There was screaming, the startled gasps of a hundred patrons as they took in the sight on the large screen before them. The trucks were all blazing, some blasted completely clear of their parking spots, and each completely decimated from the blast. Piers felt all the blood in his veins disappear, his skin paling as he watched the feed with wide, disbelieving eyes. Westbarl had just opened his mouth - his expression as consumed in horror and disbelief as Piers' - when the sound of another explosion ripped through the ballroom.

Piers thought it was another explosion from the shipment yard until he felt a large chunk of marble clip him in the shoulder, sending him down to the floor like a tin duck at a festival shooting game. His ears were ringing, and as his sight went in and out, he could just barely see the flames from the explosion licking their way up the huge curtains surrounding the ballroom and into the ceiling. All around him, feet were fleeing. He could barely feel the heels of people's shoes occasionally grinding into his hands as they passed him, their eyes wide and blank like spooked horses. He couldn't hear their screaming, but he knew they were.

There were hands at his shoulders, hefting him into something close to a seated position. He knew those hands, he thought to himself, but couldn't see their host as the hands clutched beneath his armpits from behind and began to pull him across the floor.

"Move!" A deep, smooth voice boomed.

Well, this felt strangely familiar.

"It's going to be okay, Piers!" A younger, feminine voice whispered gently at him from the left. "Your shoulder is already healing, I think. It's going to be okay."

He must have blacked out, he realized, because suddenly he had his back to one of the few marble walls still standing in the ballroom, his feet splayed out before him like a broken doll as he watched guests flee the flames through the only exit still standing - the entrance.

"She placed explosives at the entrance of every corridor except the front entrance, so her goal wasn't to kill any dignitaries," Sherry said. "And so far, no smoke or contagions. Just your regular old bomb."

"If she's working for Wesker, then no, she didn't come here for the dignitaries," the deep voice said.

"You know why she's here?" Sherry asked, paused, then, "But… you can't tell us, can you?"

"No," the man grunted. "I can't… I'm sorry."

Piers opened his eyes just in time to see Sherry's delicate, soot covered hand cover the large one currently applying pressure to the wound gushing at Piers' shoulder.

"It's okay. I know you're doing everything you can to stop it."

"Sherry? Who - ?"

"Piers!" She said, her hands suddenly at his face, fingers peeling back his eye lids to look at his pupils. "Thank God, you're awake. Ada Wong littered the ballroom with explosions. She's gone, and Chris thinks she took Jake with her." Then she paused and held up a few fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"What - ah… Three," Piers stuttered lamely, "What do you mean Ada has Jake? He disappeared for like a second!"

"Yeah, well, Wong has done worse in less time," the man pressing down upon his wound growled, and then Piers felt his heart stop. He looked over slowly, his explosion dazed eyes wide and disbelieving as he took in the man beside him.

Chris' mask was gone now, and the skin where the mask had been was pale and clean compared to the soot and blood that covered the rest of his face in smudges and splatters. Chris licked his lips nervously and gave him a small smile.

"Hey there, soldier," he said, "Glad you're back."

"Glad," Piers sputtered, "Glad I'm back? God, Chris," he finally said and lunged forward to grab the man at his shoulders and pull him forward into a desperate, grasping hug.

"Whoa, hey, calm down," Chris said as he returned the hug. "It's okay, don't hurt yourself."

Piers opened his mouth to say something, but his head was spinning and he just couldn't fathom the words to explain just how overwhelmed he felt. There had been an explosion, and he'd been hit, and he was down, and suddenly the man he had travelled half-way across the world and back to rescue was back and putting pressure on his wounds. He let out a gush of breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding - not just since the explosion, but since the moment he saw Wesker drag his unconscious captain into a helicopter and out into the DC night sky. He clutched at the man's shoulders a little harder and grinned like a madman, "I knew I'd find you somehow."

Chris laughed in his grip, short and barking. "I don't think getting your ass exploded across the ballroom counts as finding me, Nivans."

"Well it worked, didn't it?" he asked, and pulled back - his arms still at Chris shoulder's as he looked him over. "Are you okay? Did he do anything to you - ?"

Piers stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes caught saucer-wide once again as he realized what had been off with his Captain's voice - why he hadn't realized sooner it was him. The man sitting before him was nearly his age. His voice as smooth as the wrinkle-less skin spanning the width of his face. He pulled back more, taking in the slimmer, and yet somehow more lethal looking cut of the man's shoulders and frame.

"I - what did he do to you?" Piers asked, and immediately felt ashamed for the horror in his voice. After all, he was barely human himself and when he had first transformed, he had looked like a mutant fish creature.

Chris grabbed his hand and pressed it to the bandage at his shoulder, silently telling Piers to hold the pressure up as he leaned back onto his haunches and fumbled at his eyes until two boring, brown contacts slipped free onto his fingers. He rubbed them back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes still downcast and out of sight, before dropping the mangled contacts to the ground and leveling Piers with an icy, glowing and mournful stare. Beside him, he heard Sherry gasp, a soft 'oh, Chris' leaving her lips before she could stop it.

"He," Chris began, but a sick look passed over his face, his lashes fluttering wearily before he continued, "I'm infected. I can't tell you much… but I think you already figured that out."

"Chris, it's going to be okay - " Sherry said, but Chris was already moving, his arm stretched out to a nearby table and the forgotten purse he found there. He fumbled inside, his large hands fumbling inside the otherwise small and dainty purse as he pulled free a cell phone. Piers stared at him in bewilderment as the man pressed a button to check its battery level, then gently chucked it into Piers' lap. It clattered into a small mountain of other phones and electronics, each small and so light that he nearly hadn't even noticed they were there.

"What the…?"

"Earlier, Sherry pulled out her cell to phone this in, but the second it got near you it died and the bleeding slowed a bit, so," Chris trailed on, gesturing to the pile, "We found more."

And sure enough, it was helping. The phone in his lap blinked worriedly, it's battery symbol flashing before it belched out a small spark and died. He watched the spark travel up, up, up his arm until finally leaping into the sluggishly oozing mess of his shoulder, and just like that, the bleeding crawled to a final halt. Sherry added another two phones, pulled from the wreckage while he was distracted, and he watched as his skin began to sew shut - the flesh still a livid pink color, but otherwise healed.

"There," Chris said. "Now we're a man up and ready to move."

"Where's Sheva?"

"She's handling getting all of the dignitaries to safety. We haven't heard anything else since, though. Ada blew out all communications devices before the bombs blew. We're in the dark," Sherry said.

"What's the plan?" Piers asked.

"From what we can tell, there are only two reasons why Ada would take Jake deeper into complex and set off explosions instead of just slipping out with him quietly, which she very well could have done," Sherry said, "And that's because she's not done yet. And if she's not ready to leave, the only reason why she'd stay is to destroy any research about the cure or get the master sample and auction it out."

"Ada is one of Wesker's cronies," Piers said, "Do you know what the deal is, Captain?"

He watched Chris grimace. He opened his mouth, but only flinched more violently when he tried to speak. Before the man could try again, Piers held up his hand to stop him. "Alright, stop. I get it. Sherry and I will just follow you're lead, okay?"

This seemed to put Chris just as much at ease as it did unease. He looked as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but before Piers could question it, the man was up and extending an open hand down to him. Piers took it, his shoulder complaining feebly as he was hoisted up onto his feet. Sherry's small hands steadied him as Chris took several large strides into the middle of the decimated ballroom and turned in a full circle as he analyzed their surroundings.

"We need to get into the mansion, but all the ground floor corridors are blown," he said.

"What about the second floor?" Piers asked.

"That's what I'm checking," Chris said, trying to crane his neck enough to get a good look at the state of the balcony above. "Looks like if we can get up there, we can get in. It'll be faster than going outside and trying to wade through all the panicking guests."

And just like that, the BSAA captain walked up to the most stable looking portion of the second floor, hunkered down with his back to the wall, and cupped his hands before him. Sherry seemed to have gotten the message, because a moment later, she was running across the ballroom and planting one boot into Chris' waiting hands. He threw her up into the air as if she were nothing more than a small child. She even cleared the railing without her having to do anything at all.

"The balcony looks pretty stable here, and the corridor is intact," she called from above. "Send Piers up."

"Are you ready, Piers?" Chris asked.

He didn't answer, instead opting to hurtle himself across the room and into the captain's hands. He figured the man would have more trouble hoisting him up as far as he had Sherry, but before he even knew what was happening, he had cleared the balcony. 'I'm infected,' Chris had said, and the words churned uneasily at the pit of Piers' stomach. He turned around, ready to reach down for Chris, but the man wasn't even looking at him - his attention instead upon the man that had somehow managed to sneak up on them all.

Erik Westbarl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random guests who have been leaving me kudos - thank you! I adore you! <3


	24. Security Override

Chapter 24: Security Override

"Mr. Westbarl," Chris said, the name slipping past his lips in a hush of surprise. Above him, he could feel the weight of Sherry and Piers' gaze, eyes wary and curious. "You shouldn't be here, it's dangerous," Chris finally said and pointed to the door behind him, "If you head out that way, a woman named Sheva Alomar is directing everyone to safety. She'll help you."

"With all due respect, I think it's you who needs me," Westbarl said, his southern accent heavy beneath the stress of his wheezing. He had one hand clutching at his left side, holding a pain in his lungs he was trying to hide, but Chris saw it regardless. Beneath all the smoke and residue from the bombs, he couldn't smell the man's illness - but he could see it in the way he held himself, frail and gingerly. Chris' lips tugged downward into a scowl as he regarded the man, and beneath his stare, Westbarl vainly tried to puff himself up. It just made him look worse, his feeble medical mask fogging and crumpling weakly against his mouth with each breath.

"I think you and I are thinking two very different things," Chris said.

Westbarl took a moment to catch his breath before continuing with a little more conviction.

"You're chasing whoever did this, and if they're still in this building, they're heading for the labs. They may have stolen an access card, but you, my friend, do not have one, do you? You're going to need me."

"Give us your card and we'll be fine," Chris said and extended his hand immediately, eyes expectant.

"And what if they've thrown a security override once they're in? If they do, my retina scans and fingerprints are your only hope of gaining entrance to the labs," Westbarl pressed.

Chris grunted. "We're not risking your life, sir. If we get there and find out the security override has been thrown, we'll figure out another way in that doesn't involve endangering your life."

They stared each other down for a long moment before Westbarl hissed a soft, wet breath through his teeth and continued. "That boy they've got is more than just an experiment to me. He's the reason why I can avenge my wife, and I'll be damned to hell before I let anything happen to him or the cure. If they're doing anything to the equipment, to the files,  _to him_  - you'll need me to help you."

"You're not a scientist," Chris said.

"No, but if I can help him while you three handle the fighting, that's one fighter you don't lose doing what I can just as easily do, and I'll be covered."

"It's not that simple - "

" - He's right, Chris," Sherry said from above, and when he turned to meet her gaze, she met his gaze evenly. "If we take him with us, we have a sure fire way in and someone to help us behind the scenes."

"Why don't we just give him to Ada on a silver platter?" Piers added. After a long pause, Chris sighed.

"No, she's right," Chris said, despite his visible bristling at the idea of putting the sickly man in danger. "If Wong wanted Westbarl, she'd have him. Simple as that." He turned and pointed one finger at Westbarl. "But you  _listen_ to every word I say. I tell you to hide, you  _hide_. I say drop, you drop, and when I say  _run,_ you fucking  _run._ "

"Understood," Westbarl said, and despite the mask covering his face, Chris knew he was smiling.

* * *

Getting Westbarl up onto the second floor took a little more finesse than simply launching him into the air like a human projectile. Even through the man's expensive shoes, Chris could feel the trembling of his frail form in his hands as he lifted the man up to Sherry and Piers' waiting hands. Despite their gentleness, the man still groaned as they pulled him over the balcony. As soon as the man's feet disappeared from sight, Chris took one solid step back and launch himself up at the wall. Memories of Wesker's training exercises at the obstacle course flashed through his mind as his hands easily reached the balcony's top rail within one strong leap straight into the air. Piers and Sherry had their backs to him, their worried hands attempting to steady Westbarl through a particularly wet series of coughs. Just as Chris worked one leg over the balcony's rail, Piers turned around as if preparing to help him up - unaware he had already made the jump. The realization had startled the young man, because he took a step back, face pale as he looked at him.

Chris didn't need to say it to hear the words fluttering through Piers' mind -  _infected._

He shouldn't be ashamed. After all, Sherry and Piers were both infected themselves. If there were ever two people who could understand his predicament, the utter anxiousness that plagued him every waking moment since the plunger dropped on that syringe, it was them. He opened his mouth to say something, but Piers beat him to it.

"Sorry," the younger BOW said, then smiled weakly, "I forgot. I guess I'm just used to helping you up."

Chris grimaced.

"Yeah," he replied. "Me too."

He looked over to Westbarl just as the man seemed to be composing himself, his mask damp with condensation to the point where his mouth was barely a visible blur beneath it. Sherry's hands were hovering, her attention diverted to the barely functioning man before them. Whatever medical afflictions he had were clearly being exacerbated by the smoke and stress of the explosions. Again Chris scented the air to pinpoint the man's illness out of reflex, the move not quite as unnoticeable as he would have liked. It wasn't Sherry or Piers, but Westbarl himself who noticed - the man's watery eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he watched him from over Sherry's shoulder. Even now, with all the coughing, Chris still could not smell whatever ailed him, and not for the first time Chris felt something heavy and unidentifiable sink in his stomach. An intense urge to protect the feeble man before him flooded him, and his every instinct told him this was a bad idea.

Noticing Westbarl's unease, Sherry turned to follow the man's gaze just as Chris took a heavy step towards them, his frame intentionally large and imposing as he growled, "This is your last chance, sir. You can still leave. No one will blame you."

The words ' _you're a liability and a distraction_ ' were left unsaid, but everyone heard them. Sherry narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't press. A quick look at Piers confirmed that he felt the same way as the captain, his shoulders bowstring tight with tension. He returned his gaze to Westbarl only to be surprised when he found nothing there but resolve and determination.

"That boy is important to me," he said, "And that bitch in the red dress will have to walk over my dead body before she can have him."

The words sounded odd in the man's typically smooth, polite southern accent. The words felt oddly warped for some reason, and for a moment Chris felt a small haze make it difficult for him to think before he shook it off and the moment was gone. To his left, Sherry shifted uneasily.

He didn't say anything else after that; there was nothing left  _to_ say. He simply brushed past Westbarl resolutely, trying to control the rising taste of bile and anxiety in his throat as his instincts rallied viciously within him. He gave Sherry and Piers a quick, steely look before signaling with two fingers first as his brow, then ahead that they were moving out. He then looked back at Westbarl and raised those same two fingers to his lips in the universal signal for silence, and the BSAA signal for 'talk and I'll taze you'. To his credit, the sickly man merely nodded and made an obvious effort to calm his painful wheezing.

They left like that, with Chris at point, Westbarl directly behind him, and Sherry and Piers flanking the business man on either side, each soldier angled to get the most out of their peripherals as possible. They disappeared into the hallways, lead by the gentle tapping and pointing of Westbarl's fingers.

* * *

"That's it," Westbarl whispered as they came to a halt at the break of a T-sectioned corridor. With his palm held up to pause the advance of those behind him, Chris silently took the last few steps forward and pressed his back flat to the last inch of the wall. He sent a quick hand signal Piers' way to let him know he was about to look before he quickly dipped his head around the corner for a mere breath of a moment. It was all he needed, the image of the hallway burned beneath his eyelids.

Empty. The hallway was clear.

"Clear," Chris whispered back to them.

Piers was at his side instantly, the two of them looking this way and that as Westbarl made his way to the security panel.

"There's no alarms," Sherry said, and Chris could tell from the tone of her voice that she didn't know whether or not that was a good or bad thing. The thin, displeased line of Westbarl's mouth spoke volumes.

"The labs operate on a silent alarm. The fact that this panel is out and activated means that the laboratory's manual security override was activated from the inside - it's the only time this console is ever accessible," Westbarl said, "Which also means whoever activated the override is still down there."

"But you can open it," Chris said.

"Yes, I can open it, but when I do, the system will notify anyone inside that the shutdown has ceased. They'll know we're coming."

The man was intuitive, that was for sure. Chris felt a small bud of familiarity unfurl somewhere in the back of his mind, his keen eyes narrowed on the back of the unsuspecting man's neck. Even before the infection, Chris had always been good with body language - at least, non-sexual body language. He could read Sherry's anxiety in the lines of her taut biceps and shoulders. He could see in the loose, ready stance of Piers frame that he had entered the comfort of his soldier head space, eyes and ears awaiting orders and blocking out any negative mental stimuli like doubts or fear. But in Westbarl, he could see nothing. Or more to the point, he could see the symptoms of a sick man, but not the body language of one. He could see soldier-like determination in the face of explosions that had tipped the man's world on its head. For a man inexperienced with war, he moved with the mechanical proficiency of a man used to pressure. The mixed signals were confusing enough to put Chris on edge, but before he could even attempt to mention anything to Piers, the business man's hand was scanned, his retinas approved, and the doors were opening - revealing a narrow glass elevator. Immediately, the soft feminine voice devoted to the system's computers began to speak.

"Access approved. Manual Security Override disengaged. Welcome back, Mr. Westbarl. There are eight explosive devices detected in Holding Bay C. There are three explosive devices detected in Mainframe Rooms A and D. There is one explosive device detected in your office. There are two explosive devices detected in the Cargo Bay. Subject Zero and two unidentified persons are in Holding Bay C. One unidentified person is in the Data to notify the proper authorities as of fifteen minutes ago was cancelled by an unidentified ID badge. Would you like to reinitiate the notification alert?"

"Please do, ARTEMIS. Can you disengage the explosive devices?"

"No, I'm afraid not, sir. Each device appears to be on a timer, sir. Fifteen minutes remain."

Chris' insides did an unpleasant twist of their own accord. He turned to Westbarl then, his gaze resolute.

"It was one thing when you were going down there with us as a distraction, but now there are  _armed explosives_ involved. This tag along thing ends here, you're not going down there." He was relieved when neither Sherry nor Piers spoke against him, similar thoughts visibly crossing over their faces.

"No. If I go back alone who's to say I won't run into someone from the team that planted those explosions?" He pointed out, and when Chris opened his mouth to retort, Westbarl just kept talking. "We're wasting time. ARTEMIS just notified anyone in the lab of the end of the override. Not to mention that while you three handle whoever is down there, ARTEMIS can scan, analyze and walk me through how to disengage those bombs."

Chris scowled, then asked ARTEMIS without every looking away from Westbarl, "Is this true, ARTEMIS?"

"Yes, Captain Redfield, it is true."

If it had been a different time, a different situation, Chris would have taken an extra second to glare the man down for good measure - just to let him know how much he  _didn't like this_. But as it was, he continued with the mission and set the horrible feeling in his gut aside.

"We're going to go down first. Give us two minutes to divert the attention away from the door and  _then_ you come down. You keep to the shadows. You don't move unless you think you can do it undetected, and you do what you can about the device as quietly and safely as you can, understood?"

"Understood," Westbarl said as he took a small device from a panel that opened in the security console. It was an earbud, presumably to communicate with ARTEMIS - good, Chris thought. At least the system wouldn't be revealing their plan aloud to anyone with ears to hear it.

Once he was sure Westbarl was ready, Chris let lose a quick series of hand signals;  _Piers to my right, Sherry to my left. Ready? Let's move._

They entered the elevator and moments later, Westbarl was slipping out of view as they were shuttled down, down,  _down_ into the depths of the laboratory below the Westbarl estate. There had only been two buttons on the elevator's panel - down and up - and yet floor after floor passed them by. Narrow, dark hallways and abandoned halls flittered in and out of view again and again until finally one last floor passed them by and the glass elevator began to slow as it neared its destination - a huge cargo bay that had a ceiling that could easily contain an eight floor apartment building and then some. The glass window of the elevator made him uneasy, if not for the fact that he could see just how far it would fall should they be attacked while in it as for the fact that from up high, he could see every single explosive device that spanned the mile-wide floor below. Rows upon rows of containment units easily as tall as a grown man covered the floor with an eerie semblance to corn rows, their lights blinking a pleasant green oblivious to the bombs attached to a scattered number of them.

And there, at the heart of the mass of cylindrical containment units was a clearing at least 10-feet wide all the way around with an unconscious young man laying with his head cushioned in the lap of a women in a very familiar red dress, a bomb strapped to his lap and cheerfully ticking away. The moment his eyes found Jake, his stomach plummeted as if the ex-mercenary were his own son. His blood  _screamed_ a cacophony of demands. Get him, save him,  _kill anyone who laid a hand on one of ours, kill, kill, kill._

Nostrils wide, Chris breathed through the mental barrage, the reflection of his eyes suddenly bright and deadly in the glass of the elevator's windows. He could feel Piers' eyes on him, worried, and felt a pang of guilt sting his gut, slicing a wave of clarity through the demanding howls of Wesker's virus.

"I'm fine," Chris said to the unasked question, and that's all Piers' needed to resettle his attention. "If she's sitting there, she knows we're coming. No point hiding what she already knows, we're going to head this off straight down the middle. Together."

"Right behind you, Captain," Piers said with a firm nod that Chris could see reflected in the elevator's glass; a nod that Sherry mimicked just as fiercely, eyes blazing.

"Good," he said. "Let's do this."


	25. The Choices We Make

Chapter 25: The Choices We Make

Chris didn't bother to cringe at the sound of their footsteps echoing across the large cargo bay, let alone even mask them. He strode on with the grim confidence of a man ready to do what Piers had once convinced him not to do - kill Ada Wong. Not because he wanted to, that particular rage had left him long ago. No, because he was sure now in a way he couldn't explain that Ada Wong wasn't going to give him a choice. Someone in this cargo bay was going to die tonight, he could read it in the casual way she allowed Jake Muller to sleep cushioned in her gracefully folded lap, her fingers sliding through unkempt hair like a goodbye.

Chris stopped at the edge of the clearing and waited.

"Hello, Captain Redfield," Ada said, her gaze focused down at the young man in her lap. Despite all the stimuli around him, Jake didn't even twitch - his face a blank slate of unconsciousness and his hands limp against the bomb that ticked away beneath them.

"Wong," he replied, and could see Piers suddenly still at the tone of his voice - tired and resigned even to his own ears. She didn't flinch, didn't even move. Just continued to thread her fingers into the young man's hair beneath her.

"I had thought you were a stronger man," she said casually, then shrugged, "But even a man like you can only resist for so long. Are you here to kill me, captain?"

"I'm here to protect Jake Muller," he said.

"Then yes," Ada said and lifted her gaze to meet him. "You are here to kill me."

Chris pursed his lips.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Wong. Just let the kid go."

She spoke with him as if they were doing nothing more than sitting on a bench somewhere pleasant and discussing the weather.

"No."

"Don't make me do this."

"I'm not making you do anything  _he_  wouldn't have you do regardless," she said and tilted her head to analyze him, her bangs dipping to the side like a sheet of silk in the low light of the cargo bay. Chris swallowed, his throat thick and his blood cold as his eyes drifted from her hand in Jake's hair to the bomb that rested between them both. His instincts raged at the sight of the young man, urgent and demanding, but he ignored Wesker's orders as best he could.

"You're not working for Wesker," he said.

"No, I'm not."

He put two and two together.

"You're waiting for him."

She let out a surprised, if not pleased 'hmm' of praise and purred, "I knew there was a reason why he picked you."

All of this, it had been a lure - bait to draw out a predator. The question though: where  _was_  Wesker?

"He's not here, but even if he was - He'll kill you, Ada," Chris said, suddenly unsure of why this mattered so much other than the fact that Ada living was evidently what Wesker  _didn't_ want.

"Not if I kill him first," she said, and something boiled furiously in his gut. His hands tightened into fists, and he had to force himself to close his eyes and breathe before his instincts marched his body right up to Ada's docile form and strangled the threat from her throat right then and there.

"Don't," Chris warned.

"The ball is already in motion, captain. Nothing you can do about it now but brace yourself."

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat as Piers shoved him out of the way with a quick, "Chris, look out!" He stumbled to his hands and knees, but was already scrambling up by the time he saw what Piers had protected him from.

Jill Valentine had Piers by the throat, her thin fingers unnaturally strong against the fragile piping of his neck as she squeezed, forcing an unhealthy red hue to Piers' cheeks as he pulled at her wrists. With a rough, choked snarl, Piers let loose a series of crippling shocks from his fingertips that sent Jill's body writhing, her fingers clenching even tighter against the waves of electricity until the barrage finally ended. As she swayed, Piers delivered a quick boot to her sternum, rocketing her across the room with a shout.

"I've got Valentine," he said as he jogged after her. "You deal with Wong."

Before him, Ada quirked one elegant brow at him and smiled charmingly.

"So how about it, captain? Ready to deal with me?"

"Step away from Muller, Wong," Chris said steadily, his body tense as he watched her gingerly lift the young man's head and lower him gently to the ground. She slipped to her feet silently, her dress swaying as she pulled a gun up with her from where it had been hiding behind Jake's prone form. It was an odd gun, like nothing he had ever seen before, and the chamber that typically housed the ammunition clip was instead glowing with a bright green liquid.

"I'm afraid you'll have to make me," she said simply and hefted the weapon into both her hands.

"Sherry, when it's clear, start working on getting Jake out of that bomb," he said without ever taking his eyes off Ada.

"Understood," Sherry said softly, her body poised and prepared to go to Jake as soon as Ada was distracted.

To his right, he could hear Piers and Jill fighting. A crescendo of hits closely followed by the sound of a canister rocking dangerously as one of them was thrown against it. It did little to distract either of them, and without even looking over, Chris began to sidestep Ada away from Jake.

"Does Leon know you're down here?" he asked as they prepared themselves for the inevitable.

"Yes," she said. "He does."

Chris snorted with pent up disappointment. "If you're even half the woman he seems to think you are, you wouldn't do this."

She seemed about to say something when she paused, an odd smile passing over her face instead. "Stalling will get you nowhere, captain. Particularly when there are bombs afoot. Shall we begin?"

* * *

Leon ran through the halls like his heels were on fire. Ada had smashed his communicator beneath one elegant heel and never had he regretted caving into her whims more than he did in that moment. The woman had practically revealed everything that was about to happen and then left him stranded in the far side of the complex -  _away from the action_ \- and locked in the archives room with his less than desirable firewall hacking skills. It had taken far longer than he'd like to admit to escape from the room she had locked him in.

He wanted to notify Hunnigan. He wanted to check in with his team. He wanted to know that the explosion he had felt rock through the building had been a bluff and not the result of Ada finally crossing the fine line into terrorism that she had been tiptoeing for so long. He wanted to know they were alive, all of them.

But all he knew was that the security server had announced that the override was compromised and that Westbarl had unlocked the emergency entrance to the cargo bay. So he ran, practically sprinted, to the cargo bay - hoping beyond hope that it wasn't too late to stop this from happening. All the while, the video Ada had left him locked with in the archives room kept echoing in his ears.

"Ada, don't do this!" He howled into the hallways, desperately wishing that for once Ada would listen. That the eyes and ears she no doubt had set up throughout this entire complex would relay his message and convince her to stop. He hoped and he prayed and he tried to ignore the small, childish voice gibbering pathetically in the back of his mind; chanting  _it's too late, it's too late, we're never going to make it_.

His running gait felt like the vicious pounding of a jackrabbit's heartbeat - knifing through the silence of the halls as he got ever closer to the cargo bay.

_"Why are you showing me this? Ada?" He turned around from the data she had unlocked for him when she didn't answer, surprise jerking him to a fruitless sprint as the emergency doors to the archives closed behind her retreating back, locking him inside. "Ada!"_

_They came to a close with a final hiss, leaving him in silence until the monitor behind him suddenly flickered to life and Ada appeared upon it. It was an old recording. Not too old, but obviously something that she had prepared for just this very moment. She was smiling sweetly, but there was something else - something_ different  _in the smile that gave him pause._

_"Ada, what the hell are you doing, we don't have time for this!" Leon yelled aloud, hoping that she was still on the other side of the door and might hear him. Hoping it was just a game._

_"Sorry, handsome. Right about now, I should be heading off to finish what I started with our dear friend Albert - and where I'm going, you can't follow. Not this time," the recording began. "Everything you'll need is in this file. Specifics on his plans. Schematics for the contaminant he made from Muller's blood. And finally, Plan B - just in case Plan A doesn't work. But first, just listen to me."_

_His heart stuttered._

_"For a long time now, there's a choice you've needed to make and couldn't - a choice between the life you've been trying to make with Claire, and the life you've made with me," she said, then smiled a small, small smile he had only seen once before in a hotel room in Italy that he'd never forget. "I did what you asked. I picked a side. Now it's time for you to do something for me."_

_"Ada, don't do this," he whispered._

_"Finish our book and forget me, Leon," she said. "I know the first thing you'll do when you get out of this room is chase after me. I love that about you, I do. But I need you to trust me on this one, handsome. I need you to let me go."_

_She smiled and the image on the monitor flickered ominously. She pressed two fingers to her lips and blew him a cocky kiss that reminded him of their time in Spain playing cat and mouse throughout Saddler's strongholds._

_"Goodbye, Leon Scott Kennedy," she said and the image winked out._

_"ADA!"_

He came to a crashing halt at a large window overlooking the cargo bay from a floor or two above. Below, he could see everything speeding ever closer to the climax of Ada's plan. The bombs she had planted blinked cheerfully all around them, and at the cargo bay's core, Sherry was at her knees beside Jake, frantically trying to defuse the bomb. To her right, Piers had Jill by one wrist, her arm wrenched wickedly behind her back as he rammed her into a wall. Before they could collide, she brought her feet up to brace against the wall and launched him backwards, spilling them both across the floor. To Sherry's left, Chris fought against Ada with a grace that quite nearly matched her own speed and stamina. He had never seen anyone keep pace with her quite as well as Chris was in that moment, and it terrified him.

"Son of a bitch!" He snarled and ran to the stairwell at his side, slamming through the door and taking the stairs two at a time as he rushed to stop the inevitable.

_"I need you to let me go."_

* * *

"The virus has truly made you into something else, captain," Ada said through slightly out of breath gasps as she slid this way and that between his strikes, occasionally delivering a high kick or viper-quick jab of her own with little success - all the while lugging the large gun in one hand.

Chris scowled but didn't mention that he wasn't actually utilizing that much of his virus given abilities. He didn't have to use the virus' strength when the woman wasn't actually all that sturdy. Ada Wong had always relied on her wits, her speed, and the element of surprise to overcome her foes in the past, but in an actual fist fight, the human version of Chris Redfield could have taken her just as easily as this version of him. It's just that now, even her quickest movements were like molasses to his eyes.

"What's the gun for, Wong?"

"It's not for Jake, if that's what you're asking," she said as one of his fists just barely missed her collarbone, instead glancing against her shoulder and sending her off balance. He gave her a brief moment to collect herself because the sheer ease with which he was tiring her out was actually making him feel ill. "It's not for you either."

"It's for Wesker," he said. Rage boiled in his blood again but he calmed the tempest long enough to actually focus and listen to her words.

"Yes, captain. It is."

"It won't work," he said as he thrust forward suddenly, his forearm coming up to brace against her neck as he slammed her slender back into a container and pinned her in the air. "You can't kill him with a gun."

She stared at him for a long time, searching him with cunning brown eyes as he held her in place. In the distance, he could hear the elevator bing and realized with a jolt that Westbarl was on his way down. He did his best not to look over and draw attention to it, but Ada must have noticed regardless because in that one moment of distraction, her arm moved in a blur as she drew something from her waste and slammed a syringe deep into the sinews of his forearm, the plunger dropping shortly after. The needle did nothing to deter him immediately, but as the effects from the chemical within momentarily weakened his grasp, Ada dipped beneath his arms and began to run for Westbarl. It took barely fifteen seconds for his system to work the small dose of muscle relaxants out of his body, but a quick look proved that Piers had already slipped free of Jill and was chasing after Ada like a dog after a bone. Just behind him, Jill was hot on his heels so Chris diverted his attention and barreled forward to cross her path, quickly lowering one shoulder to catch her right at the waist and vault her over his head and shoulder. She met the ground with a smack that made his stomach roll, but he had barely began to turn around before she kicked his feet out from under him with a shout.

From his back, he could see Piers exchanging fists with Ada as Westbarl used the distraction to hurry over to the nearest bomb and begin deactivating it. Chris quickly rolled to his feet, content that Piers had Ada under control, and redirected his attention on Jill. Fighting her hurt. It had in Africa and it was definitely worse now that he was stronger. Every blow he delivered left her skin irritated and bruised, dark splotches rising in perfect imitations of his fists. A punch that caught her at her chin left the lips that once upon a time used to smile at him bleeding, and the look she threw him was just flat out furious. Anger and desperation and fear and  _something else_  burned in the blue that he could still remember vividly holding his gaze when Jill took his place that fateful night in the Spencer Estate. He hadn't seen as much emotion from her during all his time in captivity, and it made his resolve stumble.

"Jill, don't make me do this!" He struggled to say through clenched teeth, because despite how many times he told himself she was gone, he couldn't help but plea  _just in case_ she heard him. She didn't. Punch after punch rocketed his way until finally something broke his focus - the sound of Piers shouting.

"Chris!" Piers yelled, his voice carrying across the field easily and drawing the man's attention. The soldier was slumped against a container back near the elevator, a knife burrowed deep in his shoulder that he dug out with a grimace. Chris spun, deftly dodged another blow from Jill, and then followed Piers' pointing finger until his eyes locked onto the sight of Westbarl trying to dismantle one of the bombs nearby, the barrel of the bizarre looking gun trained on the ill man's unsuspecting head. His heart stopped, his instincts burning thickly in his ears and blood. To his left, Sherry was too focused on her task to notice Westbarl's imminent demise. To his right, Piers was still struggling to regain his balance and get to his feet, and even if he were able, a bolt of lightning in the wrong spot might trigger the bomb that Westbarl was currently elbow deep in. So that left him.

And the sight of Westbarl, sickly and hunched over an active bomb as he tried valiantly to fight a fight he was clearly had no chance of surviving - that made his heart just twist with a fury and need to protect he had only felt with one other person since his changes started.

With a punch that he didn't have time to hold back, he hit Jill just under her jaw bone - sending her sailing through the air and into a motionless heap with a crack that would haunt him for many nights to come. He should have left Westbarl in the ballroom, his thoughts snarled as he stormed across the room in a sprint, time slowing around him as his form blurred into a smear of black in the air and the hammer of Ada's gun raised up to the ready. He slid nimbly to his knees mere seconds later, his back forming a protective shield around the oblivious man as he wound his strong arms around him - his front pressed like a second skin to the kneeling man's back - and braced himself. The gunshot went off not even a second later, silencing the entire room into a sharp and stinging note of stillness all around him. Piers yelled his name and it echoed.

The force of the shot sent him forward, his body momentarily bending the man beneath him in half as Chris' weight pressed down against him. His breath left his lips in a surprised whisper as the bullet from the strange gun lodged itself just right of his upper spinal column and  _burned_. If he hadn't been there to take the bullet, it would've ended up in Westbarl's head - deep in his skull. Instead, it was in Chris. He had been shot before, he thought in a strange daze as he couldn't find the strength to pull up from the body he was crushing below him. He had been shot before, and hell yes it had hurt, but it had never felt like  _this_. Like the sun had been captured and compressed into a small, white-hot bead of agony boiling and spreading beneath his skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered screaming and the sound of gunfire as the body beneath him wormed out of his hold and pressed strong, familiar hands against his shoulders. His pupils contracted and expanded rapidly, his sight brightening and fading in a blurred, sickening strobe-light effect as Westbarl's face filled the frame of his focus. The man was pulling off his oxygen mask and tossing it to the side as he turned Chris' body and lowered him to the ground so that his cheek rested against the cold marble floor. All the while, Chris could do little to stop it.

His back felt wet. There was a hole, he was sure of it, and it felt as though it were spreading - eating through his skin like wildfire. He could hear burbling, his skin mending and melting repeatedly as the fight went on without him. Fingers brushed against his brow and the man above him whispered into his ear as Chris finally opened his eyes wide enough to take in what was happening.

"Well done, Christopher."

His world kept dipping, but he could just make out the sight of Piers pinning Ada Wong to the ground as Sherry came up beside him, his knee digging into her upper back as he wound his belt around her wrists at the swell of her waist.

"How's Chris?" Piers asked.

"Westbarl's with him," Sherry assured him, both unaware of the man approaching them as Sherry helped ensure Ada didn't struggle free. "When you're done with her, I have an idea on how to deactivate the bomb in Jake's lap. I'll need your help."

"Okay."

With Westbarl's back to him, Chris could see it the moment the man reached behind his coat and pulled out a magnum that Chris was all too familiar with. His heart stilled and his throat seized as he opened his mouth to say something, anything - but nothing came out. And as Westbarl approached his unsuspecting team, Chris' eyes fell down to the face across from him and locked eyes with Ada Wong. They were clear and knowing, and she stared him all the while as Westbarl pulled out the magnum and aimed it at her vulnerable head.

"It's going to be all right," she said, her eyes unafraid and searing - her voice drawing Piers' surprised attention.

"Ada," he gasped as the world slipped from his eyes and into blackness, chased by the sound of thunder.

* * *

Leon had just entered the cargo bay when Ada was brought down and pinned by Piers. Leon's pace had slowed, his frantic heart put at ease by the sight of Piers and Sherry subduing the woman peacefully. He breathed a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he had been holding and allowed himself to slow to a jog. His body relaxed a smidgen as the world regained order around him.

And then he looked at Ada and felt his stomach clench. She wasn't fighting or struggling, and it was  _wrong_. She was staring ahead of her, and when Leon followed her gaze, he saw Chris' large frame being maneuvered easily to the ground by Westbarl's gentle guidance - his back marred by a large and smoldering hole of bloody, acidic gore. He frowned, his pace slowing ever so slightly as he watched Westbarl lower his face to Chris' ear and whisper something, his voice too low to hear from so far away.

"Piers," Leon called hesitantly, dismayed when the man didn't hear him. As Westbarl stood and began to walk to where his comrades were pinning Ada Wong to the ground, he picked up his pace. "Piers!"

And then halfway to them, Westbarl brushed the coattails of his suit jacket aside and pulled a magnum free from a holster concealed at the small of his back. Leon began to sprint, his dress shoes loud against the floor of the cargo bay. " _Piers_!"

Piers turned ever so slightly to look at him, his brows drawn together in confusion before Ada's mouth moved, drawing his attention back down and keeping him distracted from the magnum as it aimed at Ada's head and fired.

"ADA!" Leon screamed, pumping his legs harder, but it was too late. Piers was already scrambling away, his face and torso covered in gore. The young man's boots squealed grotesquely as he scrabbled for purchase in the thick puddle that pooled from the remnants of Ada's head. One look over her shoulder and Sherry was quickly moving forward to grab at Piers' shoulders, pulling the man back and to safety as Leon barreled across the last of the space separating him from Westbarl and launched himself over the corpse of Ada Wong.

The sound that spilled from his lips wasn't human. It was broken and raged with a fury like nothing he had ever heard before. The fist that met Westbarl's face should have put down a man as sickly as him, but Westbarl merely took two staggering steps back, gathered himself up, and smiled with a wickedness Leon had only seen in pictures that belonged to a certain file.

Westbarl opened his mouth, but Leon didn't wait for him. He just lunged forward again, using his momentum to send strike after bone numbing strike at the smirking murderer before him, until it was obvious that the man had no more patience for Leon's furious tirade and began to dodge, dipping beneath and around each blow like water. Leon howled, his fury echoing across the large expanse of the cargo bay like thunder as emotion he hadn't allowed to lose control of in decades burst free from the flood gates, overpowering his mind beneath a maelstrom of rage so vicious, he did not stop even after a viper-quick swipe from the man before him lodged beneath his guard and broke several of his ribs. He didn't even slow, Leon's attacks just coming that much quicker as he danced with the very devil that had stolen Chris Redfield from them all those nights ago.

Their dance finally came to a standstill as Wesker dipped gracefully beneath a swift roundhouse kick and emerged behind him. With a callous blow, he delivered a swift downward punch onto Leon's back, sending his vertebrae into a terrible shuddering as Leon screamed, his body driven to his knees despite his fury. He breathed deeply through his nostrils, his bangs fluttering widely as Wesker circled him and returned to stand in front him - towering and smug. With a large smile, he pulled free the inky black wig from his head. At the squeak of Piers' shoes preparing to move, he drew his magnum again and aimed it at Leon's face, his brows quirked meaningfully at them from above Leon's head.

"Don't be so quick to end our little game, soldier," Wesker said, his southern accent gone. "We still have some time to kill."

And then he reached up with his free hand and deftly brushed free the contacts that had been concealing his eyes all this time. His illness was gone, his body language suddenly strong and deadly once more as he stood at full height before them.

From behind him he could hear Chris wheeze wetly, the sound of the acid rounds in Ada's gun burbling hungrily within his flesh and hissing loudly in the silence. The sound jarred the set of red eyes before him into a blaze, making Leon narrow his eyes before Wesker could hide the reaction. The hammer on the magnum cocked loudly before him, but Leon never stopped his glaring.

"I'll be taking all that belongs to me and leaving. Whether you all remain here when the explosions start is your choice," Wesker said simply, "Although I must admit I'm somewhat hoping you'll pick death all on your own. Christopher would just love that - knowing you all died down here and he could do nothing to stop it."

"Shut your fucking mouth," Piers snarled and stepped forward, only to be stopped by Sherry's sturdy hands at his elbows, begging him to calm down.

"Piers, don't!"

Wesker sent the soldier a firm, assessing gaze that ended in a knowing smirk, then returned his focus to the man on his knees before him.

"Funny how life just chases its tail, don't you think, Agent Kennedy?" He tipped his head to the side, his smirk widening. "What, no snide comebacks? I'm disappointed."

Leon paused for a moment, but no matter how deep within himself he plunged, there was nothing left but hatred. He was exhausted, the thin veneer of his temperance and cool demeanor shattered, and so he merely pursed his lips and glowered. The bomb to his left kept ticking down as Wesker pressed the magnum's barrel to his forehead and forced his gaze upward as he appraised him.

"Ah yes, I can see it in you, too," Wesker said and gracefully leaned down so that they were nearly face to face, the gun barrel still present as he whisper lowly in his ear. "You're cut from the same cloth. You would fit quite nicely into my new world, if you would only ask."

And then he pulled back, clearly expectant as he waited. On the bombs ticked to doomsday beside him, and in his peripherals, he could see Piers and Sherry moving as subtly as possible. So he bought them time and said, "Careful, Wesker. Give enough men like us that sort of power and you won't be standing on top too much longer."

Wesker snorted. "If you believe Christopher truly has any chance of besting my control, you know nothing of my power."

"Really?" Leon countered. "Because the way I see it, he'll wake up and you'll tell him he followed your every order, but we both know what you're really doing here, Albert. You're manipulating a man stronger than yourself into believing that he's weak, and when in history has that ever ended well for men like you?"

The words had Wesker towering over him, his body silhouetted by the lights above and leaving nothing but the ominous red glowing of his eyes behind.

"I am no man," Wesker sneered, then adjusted his aim and fired - a torture shot. The bullet tore straight through Leon's old bum shoulder just as the bomb in Jake's lap was deactivated, the electricity from the hardware rerouted from the hand Piers had atop it and out the other he had aimed directly at Wesker. As the bolt crossed through the air, electricity channeled from the other bombs in the cargo bay and sprung up to meet it until finally the bolt struck Wesker in the chest,  _hard,_ and sent him flying through several containers. Each destroyed container let loose a dense puff of mist that immediately set off the alarms in the facility.

"Contagion released in Cargo Bay C. Please evacuate, contagion released in Cargo Bay C. Please evacuate, contagion released in Cargo Bay C," ARTEMIS repeated pleasantly as the lights all went out and were replaced by bright, flashing red ones. Just as quickly as the mist was released, the floor split in two and grating appeared, sucking the mist away. The warnings blared on regardless.

"Move, move, move!" Piers yelled, and Leon barely had time to look back before Sherry ducked under his arm and pulled him to his feet. He wobbled, but his footing held, and together they maneuvered back to see Piers rip Jake free of the duck-tape and useless bomb. He manhandled the unconscious ex-mercenary into a successful piggyback, and just as Piers readjusted his grip, Leon heard Wesker barreling towards them.

"Leon!" Piers yelled, but before the blonde BOW could reach them, Jill Valentine suddenly slammed into Wesker from the side, sending him off balance as she vaulted her body up onto his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his head, and used her body weight to pull him over and crush his head into the ground.

"Run!" She screamed raggedly, her hair a golden blaze around her face as she ordered them to flee. "Take Muller and Chris,  _and get out of here!_ "

The alarms blared as Sherry shuffled herself and Leon to Piers' side.

"Do you got him?" She yells over the chaos and Piers nodded fiercely, but when Sherry moved to head for the elevator, Piers' grabbed her quickly by the elbow, his eyes shocked and confused.

"The captain!" He said as if she were thinking of walking outside with no clothes on, and when Leon sees the grimace that passes over Sherry's face, he knows what's going to happen. They have two unconscious men, one who can't stand, and only two able bodied people. Who knows how long Valentine will remain in control or successfully distract Wesker, and of them, Chris is the one person who not only has the best chances of surviving Wesker should he be left behind, he's also the one they don't know if they can trust.

Sherry swallowed as if she had an unpleasant taste on her tongue and opened her mouth to speak just as the still active bombs went off in the other parts of the facility. The building quaked and the lights flickered, the alarms blaring even louder now as the sprinklers in the facility began to rain down upon them. Water rolled off her smooth skin as she looked at Piers' with a pained expression and said, "We can't bring him with us."

"The hell we can't!" Piers snarled.

"How, Piers? Leon can barely walk and Jake's unconscious on your  _back_. Of us, Chris is the only one we know that if we leave him, Wesker won't kill him. I don't like it any more than you do, but we're running out of time and we have to make a choice. We can't bring him with us, and if he were awake, he'd be telling you that himself."

Seconds ticked by and Leon could see Piers' throat working as he stumbled through possible reasons of why this was wrong, why  _they're_ wrong about Chris, but Leon sees it the moment Piers caves. With one look back at the prone and bleeding form behind them, Piers starts running toward the elevators with Sherry and Leon right behind him. The world keeps fading in and out for Leon as something hot and wet oozes sluggishly down his chest and trails over his broken ribs. There's blood in his mouth and oozing from his nose, and as the elevator doors close, he can see Jill Valentine being thrown across the room. Her back meets a storage container so hard the metal encasing gets dented, and she doesn't get up - but that doesn't stop Wesker. He's already running for the elevator, his legs carrying him across the cargo bay with unnatural speed, but by the time he even gets close, the elevator is already slipping out of sight. The last thing Leon sees before he loses all sight of the cargo bay below is Chris' broken and unconscious body - silent and left behind.

Wesker's angry howling, however, follows him into unconsciousness.


	26. Fault Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small Warning: Piers may or may not curse a lot. (He does)

Chapter 26: Fault Lines

The run to the helicopter was easy after that. Wesker did not follow them. No one did. Hallways passed beneath their stumbling feet until they reached the landing pad atop the mansion, a helicopter already primed and ready for them. They filed in one by one, tucking the unconscious men in first before Sherry and Piers jumped in after them.  Their pilot didn't waste any time taking off, and no sooner had Piers slammed the chopper doors shut they were lifting off into the air. His heart pounded in his rib cage like an angry, cornered animal as he vigilantly watched the rooftop below them for Wesker - so sure that they had been followed.

But they hadn't, and suddenly Piers felt so foolish for thinking that they had. In that moment is was clear, oh so clear, the mistake that they had made. Jake was important, but evidently _Chris was more important._ Why else would Wesker stay behind, if not to save him from Ada's bullet. Why else.

"My God… we left him," Piers murmured, face tucked in horror beneath the weight of his palm and spread fingers as he watched the mansion disappear beneath them. "We fucking _left him_."

"Piers," Sherry said, Jake's unconscious head held protectively in her lap, "We had no choice. Chris would understand that."

"No, _you_ don't understand!" He exclaimed suddenly, his voice tight and throttled in his throat. "Wesker didn't follow us and it's not because someone's fucking stopping him. Chris is more important than that little fuck and we just _left him_!"

"Don't you dare blame him or anyone else, Piers," Sherry said, her voice suddenly low and dangerous, " _Both_ of them are important, and between the two of them, Wesker can't make a weapon of mass bioterrorism out of Chris."

"How do you know?"

"I don't. I don't know that he can't make something dangerous out of Chris, but I _do_ know that he _can and will_ with Jake. We made the best call that we could, Piers. Chris…" She paused, but Piers already knew what words were lodged at the tip of her tongue. And suddenly he felt a ripe ball of bitterness coil in his guts. He glared at her, his eyes narrow and disgusted.

"Go ahead, say it."

Sherry sighed.

"He might not even make it, Piers. You already know that. You saw the damage from Ada's bullet, whatever it was. It was obviously designed for Wesker. If Ada thought it could take down Wesker, there's a distinct possibility it could take down Chris too." Piers felt the bitterness rise into his eyes, his two mismatched irises to glaring at her with fury. "I'm sorry, Piers. I know -"

"- Don't. Just fucking _don't._ You got what you came here to protect, so don't."

"That's not fair, Piers."

A laugh burbled up unbidden from his throat; a horrible, twisted sound that was more akin to mirthful than amused. He twisted his head to look at her manically, his face tugged into tight, painful angles as he bared down on her with the full force of life's "fairness".

"Fair. _Fair,_ " he spat, his words as venomous as his gaze. "Don't you dare try to talk to me about _fair._ This is the third time my team lost men covering you and that stupid, arrogant son of a bitch. Edonia. The underwater facility. Now this."

"Piers -"

"- No! You don't get to tell me that I don't get to lay blame. I'm a fucking _monster_ because that son of a bitch. He was more than happy to leave us behind to clean up the mess every fucking time, too busy chasing whatever the fuck he happened to want at any given moment to care about anyone else. People like me? Like Chris? Like _Finn_? - we're the people who ended up paying for mistakes from like punks like him."

"You think he doesn't know that?" Sherry said, her voice eerily quiet. "He donated _months_ of his life to help us find a cure. Months in an underground facility, away from the light."

"For a cure that wasn't even real, you mean that cure?"

"That's not fair. We didn't know that then."

"Oh, sorry. Neither did I, because I was _also in fucking underground facility._ Away from the light, being treated like a monster. He got needles, I got wary glances and nervous fucking hands - constantly surrounded by people who worried I would snap at any moment. Fuck - I was worried about the same damn thing. So I'm sorry if I'm not impressed by his little _donation_. He's just a regular humanitarian, isn't he."

"We ran into our own problems in that facility, Piers. Haos wasn't the only thing in it; you didn't clear the whole way out of that facility," Sherry said.

"But would you have been able to handle both of those creatures if we hadn't been there to deal with the one you two released? Would you have gotten out if we hadn't followed Leon's tip and come for you?"

"Piers."

"I get it, Sherry, I do. He's important. Good for him. But stop trying to pretend like half this shit didn't happen because of him. Because it did. Haos. Hell, if Jake had just left when you told him to at the party instead of running off with the first waitress that happened to bat her eyes in his direction, maybe none of this would have happened. So stop. Stop protecting him, stop trying to belittle the people who sacrificed everything cleaning up that punk's mess. _Stop_. Because I swear to God you do it again and I might just push him out of this fucking helicopter myself."

Sherry suddenly stilled, her back becoming ramrod straight as a sheet of cold, icy professionalism passed over her face. She regarded him with hard eyes, her fingers gentle as they passed through Jake's hair. Behind them, Leon lolled bonelessly in the seat they strapped him too, the government issued paramedic beside him frozen and wide-eyed in the wake of their fight, hand firm upon the bloody wound in Leon's shoulder. Piers felt a small ping of guilt jab him beneath the red haze of his anger as he took in the paramedic's evident fear. It was only then that he realized he was effecting nearby electronics; the paramedic's equipment flashing and beeping anxiously. With a deep, stuttering breath, Piers reigned in his emotions enough to save the paramedic's gear - only to come face to face with Sherry's cold, disappointed face again. Piers hardened his face again in response.

"I get that you're upset. You and Chris are close," Sherry said. "And I get that you are the way you are because you and Chris covered our backs - _I get it._ But you made that choice, not us. You don't get to hold it against us. Not when you know that if we were back there, _Chris_ would not have let it go down any other way. You're not human anymore and it's not fair. Welcome to our lives, Piers. I didn't ask for the G-virus. Jake certainly didn't ask to be Wesker's son. So that high horse you think you're so privileged to sit on because you took a bullet for us? Get off it. You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for Leon and me _vouching for you._ "

Silence hung like a heavy veil between them for long moment until finally Piers took a long, seething drag of air into his lungs and responded coolly.

"Yeah. Convenient that so far the only people who have reaped any benefits from "vouching for me" are the NSA and the Secret Service."

Sherry opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the pilot, his voice apologetic as he said, "Sorry sirs, but we're approaching the rendezvous to switch choppers and get Mr. Kennedy proper medical attention. ETA five minutes."

"Thank you," Sherry said, eyes never leaving Piers.

"I'm not asking you to turn around and save him," Piers finally said, voice quiet in the aftermath of their argument. "I'm just asking for you to face the truth of what we all just did without hiding behind any excuses. We left the Captain behind. After everything he's done, we just left him with the very mad man we've been trying to save him from."

"He would've wanted that if he had been conscious, Piers," Sherry said gently. "He would have held Wesker down himself."

"That doesn't change what we did when he needed us the most and you know that."

Sherry didn't look away, didn't shy away from his blame. She merely held his eyes and said, "I know."

Behind them, Leon moaned in agony - evidently lifting from unconsciousness - as the paramedic continued to apply pressure to the wound. All the while, the paramedic murmured into her headset, no doubt delivering information and orders to the ground team waiting to take Leon into surgery.

"The bullet went clear through his shoulder but the damaged tissue is a mess," the paramedic said.

Somewhere in the distance, explosions screamed through the sky - rocking the helicopter and jarring their attention to the windows as they watched the "Westbarl" Estate go up in flames. Piers felt his breath stutter and tried to convince himself that despite the implications, Wesker saved Chris before the blast. A small, slender hand at his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to look at Sherry, a sudden wave of guilt washing over him as she comforted him despite the sharp words he had struck her with not even moments ago. She didn't smile at him, but something in her face said that she hadn't taken his words too personally. She understood. She _got it_.

"It's going to be okay."

She was a better soldier than he'd ever be, he thought in that moment. A better person.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said. "You're right."

They flew off towards the rendezvous and the flight was a silent affair from there - but less strenuous now that all the poison had been lifted from their veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story went from having a handful of kudos to 81 freaking kudos in about the span of a month. I just wanted to take a second to thank you guys for your support and patience! It seriously makes my day when I see people are enjoying this story, so thank you. :)
> 
> Also - Piers says a lot of bad shit in this chapter. Some of it may or may not be true according to actual events, but I sort of imagine he'd see it this way sometimes.


	27. Jill Valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SONG WHILE WRITING: Take My Place by Marco Beltrami (Snowpiercer OST)

Chapter 27: Jill Valentine

Jill Valentine woke up in a limousine. She did not know if it was the limo that had originally brought them to the estate or if it belonged to another partygoer. What she did know was that her left shoulder was severely dislocated, her right eye was swollen shut, her jaw felt fractures and all of the fingers on her left hand were swollen - the digits purple and ugly where they lay numb and unresponsive in her lap. She licked what felt like a crater sized gash in her lip and opened the wound; the taste of her blood sharp. It cut through the concussive fog of her wounds like a knife.

She was bleeding.

Her heart soared, but she forced herself to remain calm and breathe evenly. If she was bleeding, the nanobots were no longer functioning - no longer pumping whatever chemical hormone Wesker used to control her and heal her. She heaved a short, deep breath that whistled through her swollen sinuses and fought back a weak smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth.

She tried to observe her surroundings through her lashes, her head still ducked to her chest in a boneless slouch. She was curled on the farthest seat away from the cab of the limo, her back to the road and her gaze facing the length of the seats ahead of her. The floor was littered with bandages and plastic, all of which was covered in decayed flesh and a thick, smelly black grime that sizzled and seared against anything it touched. Various parts of the carpeted floor were singed or still burning.

"I know you are awake, Jill," Wesker said, his voice a calm, cold purr in the silence. "No need to continue with your rather embarrassingly poor ruse."

In response, she adapted her body language to something as close to alert as possible, her expression never wavering. She was comfortable with Wesker. She knew his tells, his tones, his body. She took the scene before her slowly, allowing her to observe everything she could not prior due to the angle of her vision. All of the bandages that covered the floor led to one thing, or one person rather - Chris.

He was laid out on the longest seat of the limo with his back to the air. Wesker had the unconscious soldier's head pillowed against his thigh, his fingers carded into the man's hair as a master would a prized dog. Chris was actually drooling on Albert Wesker's insanely expensive trousers, and she would be sure to tell him as much when all of this was over. If it was ever over.

Wesker followed her gaze to his hand buried deep in Chris' hair, but did not move. He felt no shame for the blatant sign of ownership - because that's what it was, ownership. Praise for a good dog on a job well done.

"Your virus works," Jill said, voice dead. "He saved you."

She expected the man to sneer at her for even inferring that he needed saving, but instead the blond BOW simply rubbed his fingers deeper into the man's skull and murmured, "So it would appear."

Silence settled over the limo as it chugged on down the highway. All around them, vehicles had pulled to the side to watch the inferno of the Westbarl Estate blazing in the hills ahead. She could see the deep plumes of smoke from where she sat, rising higher and higher into the night sky.

"Will he make it?"

The sound of Wesker shifting caught her attention. She watched as he removed yet another piece of thick gauze from Chris' back and deposited it onto the floor. It seared the carpet upon the impact, the smell disgusting. It wafted up from the floor, but even more so from Chris' back as it became exposed to the air. If Jill were in another line of work, she might have covered her nose. Instead, she watched with forced impassiveness as Wesker cleaned the wound and applied another square of sterile dressing.

Chris whimpered from his spot and something shivered in her chest that had not felt anything in a very long time.

"Had Wong's shot gotten him here," Wesker said, pointing to Chris' head, "Or here," he pointed to his heart, "The trauma would have been too great, he is still too young."

 _'The_ virus _is still too young, even now'_  went unsaid.

"And if it had been you?"

Wesker raised his gaze to hers; a gaze she knew. Years ago, it frightened her - sent her heart racing against his ribs like a trapped and wounded animal. Now, things were different. Now, what difference would her death make?

"He'll live," Wesker said finally, his hand returning to the dark hair pillowed against his thigh. Chris' whimpers lessened. "So long as he remains within close contact of me, the virus will sense kin and allow his body to go into the regenerative coma he needs to rebuild the tissue faster than he is losing it."

Jill licked her dry lips.

"Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself of that, not me."

He shot her another look, daring her to elaborate. She did not relent; instead, she looked back to the chaos they left behind.

"If you were certain, you wouldn't have answered that question at all."

She felt his gaze on her, the heat of his intent as heavy as a guillotine blade suspended only by the thin thread of his patience. Deep beneath the layers of her skin, she shivered where he could not see.

"Ask me if I'll let you live for your transgressions."

And to that, she turned to face him.

"Ask me if I care."

She waited for his magnum to rise, for the knife to be thrown, for the guillotine blade to drop. She waited until finally, Wesker's face broke into a smile - wicked and knowing.

"Oh but my dear Valentine, you do care," he said, continuing to idly thread his fingers through the sweaty, smoke clogged hair on Chris' scalp. He looked impossibly young like that, unconscious beneath the hand of his enemy. "You care about  _him_."

She didn't bother to correct him. If he thought it was love that broke her free of the nanobots, he would simply "flick the switch" and turn up the juice on a device Piers Nivans fried. Why kill her if she could be his perfect little expendable weapon again? She could use it to her advantage and she would. Her window of opportunity would be short, but it'd be worth it. Because Wesker was right, she cared about Chris Redfield.

Even now, she cared.

* * *

Days had passed and Piers was wandering the "yard" of one of the BSAA's underground bases, his boots kicking up thick mounds of snow with every step as he walked toward the bench planted in the middle of the winter covered garden. It was overcast and bitter. He found Leon sitting there in just his hospital gown and the thin bathrobe that came standard issue in every BSAA hospital room. He had his head down and his fingers paused over the thick, brown paper of a small package. It did not come with an address or any form of identification. The man's fingers looked pale and shaky against the stark brown of the paper.

Piers didn't bother announcing himself. He knew Leon could hear him coming. Instead, he walked up, scraped the snow free of the spot beside him and sat down. He could feel the cold even through his thick coat and shivered in sympathy for Leon in his paper thin attire.

Surgery had been a rough and arduous undertaking for the men and women who helped save Leon Kennedy's life. The damaged tissue was in disarray, and at the moment his arm was stabilized and bound to Leon's chest; making him look feeble and half his size. There were dark, barren circles beneath his eyes. His hair was lank and muted. Piers observed him silently.

"It's from Ada," Leon finally said, his voice dry from disuse. "I had… I had one of your BSAA brothers bring it here from my apartment."

Piers didn't bother to mention it was against protocol, given the nature of the facility they were all currently under house arrest in until the council could decide what to do with everything that had happened in the last few days. It was a very rare breath of reprieve, a moment for Leon to grieve. If he needed a book to do so, who was he to call him out for it.

"What is it?" Piers finally asked.

Leon's lips attempted to pull into a smile. Instead, his dry lips cracked and he winced. A cursory lick confirmed broken skin and oozing blood. It smeared his lips an eerie shade of red against his pale face.

"A game we used to play."

"I thought you said it was a book?"

"It is."

Silence hung in the heavy winter air. Piers shivered and blew out a haze of warm breath that clouded around his face.

"You couldn't have picked some nicer weather for this?" Piers asked.

"The yard lets me pick any weather I want," Leon said with an unsympathetic smile. "Snow seemed fitting. It was her favorite."

"I imagined her as a beach and bikinis kind of girl," Piers said before he could stop it from coming out. He hunched his shoulders in apology, but calmed down when he saw Leon's small smile and shaking head.

"Yeah, me too. Evidently she burns too easily though. Prefers snow. Found it soothing. Clean like a new slate."

"The doctors would have a fit if they found out you used the computer simulators to turn the holo-yard into your very own refrigerator."

"No one else was using it."

"Point taken."

They sat there in companionable silence for a long moment before Piers gently bumped Leon.

"So what was the game?"

"Something from simpler days," Leon said fondly as he picked at the paper, but did not peel it off. "When we first started bumping into each other on missions, we started to play this game. I had been reading a book and she stole it. She ended up reading it too by the time I stole it back, so slowly we've been reading the book to the finish - one book heist at a time. It's…stupid but -"

"But they were simpler days," Piers said. "I get it… I'm sorry, for what it's worth… Sorry I didn't see that son of a bitch coming. I could have - "

"In my experience, it's hard to stop Albert Wesker from killing someone he decided should be dead. Chris and Jill are two of the few to survive him." He paused and looked Piers in the eyes. "I don't blame you for being human, Piers. You did what you could to bring her in peacefully. That's all that matters."

Piers swallowed the heavy burden that had been crushing his throat, the sound of it loud between them.

"And for what it's worth," Leon said, bumping him back. "I'm sorry we had to leave Chris behind. I wish it could have been different."

"Yeah, me too... Are you going to open it?" Piers asked.

"No, not yet. I think I'll wait until we've saved the world," he said with an expression Piers couldn't quite read. "It'll give me something to look forward to."

If there was something suspiciously wet in Leon's eyes, Piers didn't mention it. Instead, he just leaned back and enjoyed the crisp cold of the BSAA's computer simulated winter. He didn't tell Leon to move inside when it started snowing again, nor did he leave. He just slid a little closer to lend some warmth and sat beside the man who had freed him from the purgatory. Many things went unsaid in the silence of that holo-yard. Things that didn't need to be said. But one thing hung between them heavy and more solid than anything else.

Albert Wesker would pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] another long leave of absence and a short chapter - but this felt like the best place to leave the chapter for now. Things are about to escalate, it was time for some quiet before the storm. Thank you to anyone and everyone who patiently continues to read this story. I cannot even explain how much your reviews of encouragement mean - it always gladdens my heart to hear you guys still follow and enjoy this story despite the length of time it takes for it to update. So thank you. :)
> 
> Additionally, I'm going to start posting the songs that I listen to while writing each chapter.


	28. The Final Verdict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: The Lava Waltz by Shady Bard

Chapter 28: The Final Verdict

**The facility was on fire;**  the walls, the ceiling - everything. No one knew why or who, only to  _get out, get out, get out._

Alarms blared all around, some warped and crackling pitifully as they melted; the sound set Piers' skin on edge as he ran. Sherry and Jake were ahead of him, Jake's broad shoulders a wall behind him and what lay ahead. They ran and ran, the fire fast on their heels. He couldn't pull in enough air. He couldn't see through the smoke ahead. He feared that the fire was everywhere. There was no escape.

"Wait!" Piers called, lungs too tight to move. The three stumbled to a halt, assessing their location. Jake and Sherry were deep in an argument, their faces moving in the silence that had suddenly taken hold of Piers as everything moved in slow motion around him, roaring silently like ocean waves. He turned around to keep guard of their backs.

It was the precise moment he turned around, the flames of the facility climbing ever higher, that he saw a demon step into the middle of the hall behind them - tall and icy cold amidst the heat curling across the leather of its uniform and the unaffected skin of its hands. A black spot in a field of fire, large and looming.

"Chris," Piers rasped, his voice lost to the wailing fire.

The name meant nothing to the stranger, that much was apparent. Its face remained blank and unreachable, but it was its eyes that hurt the most to look at - blue like starlight and just as distant and far away, too. Jake and Sherry started running again; small dots on a horizon he couldn't reach, but the specter did not move. It remained, still and patient. Time was no matter to it. Neither was the fire that burned Piers' skin, singed his hair, scaled his lungs; killed him softly.

"Chris," he tried again, "Please…" He let the words trail, because what was left to say to the shadow before him?  _Please don't make me do this, Chris, please_ don't do this.

He felt something break in his chest, as though all the air in his lungs had solidified, shattered and littered his organs with glass. He let out a shaky, desperate breath as the figure took one foreboding step forward, then another and another - its hand bared at its side in a loose and ready claw. A flash of insight made Piers' mind stutter as he grasped where he had seen that stance before - from surveillance video from the Spencer Estate the night Jill "died". Wesker's hand, loose and ready to tear away Chris' heart.

Chris had no weapons. A weapon did not need weapons.

Piers shook. He could not move. The closer the specter came to him, the more he had to crane his neck until finally Chris was there,  _right there within reach_ , looming above him - eyes cold and interest piqued by the mortal that did not have the good sense to run from him. Bright eyes watched Piers shudder, no doubt saw the moisture in his eyes before the flames burnt them from his skin.

"Please."

Piers never could manage to wake up before the inevitable, instead always having to bare the pain of having his captain tear through bone and tissue as if he were made of nothing more solid than butter. Bone parted, muscle caved - Piers died.

The dream was always the same.

As unchanging as the facility (that upon waking  _was not_  on fire) that the BSAA had condemned them all to in the aftermath of the Westbarl Estate. Piers lurched forward, his body slick with a cool sheet of drying sweat. His skin felt too tight and if there had been any electronics in his room, they would have combusted - he had learned that lesson several nights ago. Instead he sat in darkness, body still wracked with fruitless fear as he remember the cold, flaming eyes of the monster Wesker had created. The image of him standing at the end of the hall haunted him; he knew precisely which hall it was too.

He hasn't had the courage to walk through it since the first dream.

Unable to contain the sheer panic of countless nights of dreaming any longer, Piers thrust himself from the bed and paced. He managed to track his small room from one end to the other twice before the howl escaped him, ripping from his dream-punctured lungs like a hurricane as he slammed his hand into the wall again and again and again. Even in the dark he knew what kind of damage he was causing. Bits of concrete and wall kept cracking and sticking to the smear of blood caking his knuckles with each withdraw of his hand until finally something  _snapped -_ whether it was his hand or the wall or his mind, he didn't know. He merely let out a whisper-cracked whimper and fell forward to brace himself, lungs not fully expanding whilst in the clutches of his panic attack.

He braced himself there for a long time - centuries, eons.

Not long enough to erase the burning image of Chris Redfield's ghost from his mind.

* * *

Piers went to the meal hall at off times from everyone else. Not because of the stares he got from other people; that didn't bother him anymore. It was the fact that for them, life kept moving on untouched. No one cared how fucked up his life or Chris' life or Leon's life or any of their lives were because of their duty. They just kept waking up each morning, putting their damn pants on one leg at a time and functioned - ignorant and ungrateful. He despised them; could not bare to stand amongst them in lines of mindless waiting, their breathing a hot and heavy pressure weighing down on all sides as they existed all around him and just  _didn't fucking know_ what happened.

Why were they here and not Chris?

The cafeteria workers were setting up shop as he entered, but they were more than accustomed to his weird hours. Without impatience or judgment, one of the older ladies pulled a meal they had especially set aside for him and gently pressed it into his clammy, still shaking hands - her own soft, leathery fingers brushing and pausing over his. His fingers could still feel the fire from his dream and by comparison, her own were made of ice. It made him flinch, and respectfully, she withdrew her hands. Unafraid.

"Take your time," she said before turning on heel to resume her work. Whether she had meant for him to stay and eat or something else entirely, he didn't knew. He didn't linger on it too long, either. He turned to leave and eat out in the 'yard' when he caught sight of a second meal set out and waiting. He knew immediately it was for Leon.

* * *

He passed friends in the hall as though they were strangers; pale imitations of a time when they were all better people. Jake never kept his gaze for too long. If not for his sneer, Piers would have mistaken the action for guilt. He saw less and less of Jake as days passed.

The last time he saw him, the ex-mercenary had dark circles under his eyes. Piers did, too.

Sherry managed to corner him at least once every two days. With a motherly affection he did not expect the independent and hardened woman to have, she would brush at the darkness under his eyes and quickly check his pulse under the guise of reassuring him with a comforting hand at his wrist. He let her do it - too exhausted to fight her. She suggested meeting with a BSAA therapist. He bit his tongue when cruel comebacks wormed their way to the surface. He walked away instead.

The guilt of dismissing her so rudely almost made him forget about everything else. He couldn't stop himself from doing it.

He sometimes sat with Leon when he could find him. Their impromptu meetings were often held in a soft, respectful silence. The agent always had his book with him - the paper as pristine and immaculate as the day he first saw it. Piers always felt filthy while in its presence.

He hadn't seen Sheva since the Westbarl Estate. He wondered if she was alive. No one had told him. He didn't bother to ask.

He puts his pants on one damn leg at a time and functions, waiting for the BSAA, the NSA, and the Secret Service to reveal a plan of action - anything to get him moving.

One day he went to the gym only to find that his access was retracted. As was the yard and almost anything other than his quarters. Shortly after, a group of soldiers came to gather him.

All of them were armed.

His blood seethed beneath his skin, but he was too exhausted to do anything about it. Instead he silently allows them to lead him, his shoulders slouched and his skin pale; his figure all in all dwarfed amidst the men and women that walked him away.

They passed Sherry along the way. Piers couldn't meet her eyes or anyone else's. It had been a long time since he felt like an animal on parade. He should have known better than to think that part of his life was behind him.

* * *

Piers sat in his chair with his feet spread and his back bowed deep into the backrest until the dip of his neck was nearly settled upon its top. He stared blankly ahead, his chair isolated in a deep sea of space and surrounded on all sides by a large, circular table where council officials talked around him instead of with him, all the while surrounded by armed personnel. A small voice that sounded suspiciously like Chris told him to sit up, pay attention and give a damn.

He didn't.

"To my knowledge, Special Agent Nivans has been vital to your operations several times over. Without him, the African branch might have fallen and the surrounding area infected. Without him, you may not have retrieved Jake Muller at all. I don't see why you are wasting time questioning the loyalty of a good man and valuable asset while the enemy licks their wounds and plans!" A man raged. The man didn't look as though he were an associate of any security organization Piers could think of. Instead of a precise military cut or uniform, the man had shaggy brown hair and was dressed in a plain, inexpensive but professional suit. Piers wondered if he had met this man before, but he knew that if he had, he would have definitely remembered a man with an accent that thick.

The stranger was awfully invested in a man he'd never met.

"Mr. Kozachenko, with all due respect we brought you here today to analyze whether or not the infected person in question is a liability, not if he is a good man," one of the BSAA councilmen said, his jowls quivering in Piers' peripheral vision. "And with all due respect to Agent Kennedy who insisted upon your presence here today, I believe your files says that you are intimately knowledgeable with the  _Las Plagas_  infection. I fail to see how your expertise helps us with the decision we are trying to make today."

To his left, Piers could hear Mr. Kozachenko snarl.

"I find it more than a little tragic that the men and women in charge of the very organization responsible for handling bioterrorist outbreaks know so little about the viruses that they fight so hard to exterminate. The C-Virus is what is responsible for the mutations in this young man, yes? It is commonly known that the C-Virus is a combination of the T-Virus and the G-Virus. But what  _should be_  commonly known and evidently  _is not_  is that the hive-minded abilities of the C-Virus present in the J'avo and other creatures spawned from it comes from Las Plagas," Mr. Kozachenko said.

"Impossible," a bespectacled man said from another seat at the table, looking outraged. Piers noted the pristine white lab coat he wore. A scientist oddly bereft of any stain or messy product of science on his coat. "If that were true, the C-Virus would be transmittable through Las Plaga parasites and latch onto the spinal column as noted in Agent Kennedy's reports and various  _actual_ scientific records. The C-Virus is airborne and transmittable by direct contact!"

"And that is what we call  _evolution_ ," Mr. Kozachenko said slowly, as if speaking to a small and particularly unruly child. "Not to mention that Las Plagas did not start off as only being transmittable via consumption. Agent Kennedy himself brought home documents from various bases in Spain stating that men working in the mines  _breathed in_ the contaminate. None of these medical records, documents or personal journals say anything about being attacked in the mines by large bugs or else Spain would have received a lot more attention than it did. Instead, the airborne parasite was confused for an evolved strain of the flu or other illness until more severe symptoms began to arise. Las Plagas is not limited to consumption, doctor, and after being introduced to the T and G-Viruses, it is more than a little simple-minded to believe that it would only continue to behave as it had in Spain."

The doctor - who ended up being seated directly ahead of Piers - stood up, his chair legs squealing as he began to shout. "I request that this man be removed from this meeting! He is not a notable scientist! He is not even a graduate from any  _field_ of science whatsoever!"

"Order!" A woman shouted. Piqued by the familiar voice, Piers lifted his gaze to take in the unexpected sight of BSAA Director Dian Page. She, much like the soldiers he had fought with these past two weeks, looked exhausted and war torn. Her expression and body language expected nothing less than complete and utter respect and obedience, however, and after a few more shouts of this, the room settled into a mild state of unsettled silence. "Dr. Johnson, please return to your seat. Now, Mr. Kozachenko, he does have a point. Can you explain to the council why Mr. Kennedy seems to value your opinion more than that of our top scientists on base?"

She asked her question coolly, but without disrespect. Now that she was involved in the conversation, Piers found himself sitting just the littlest bit taller.

"Madame Director," Mr. Kozachenko said respectfully, inclining his head in her direction before continuing. "As Doctor…what was your name again? Johnson? - yes, as Dr.  _Johnson_  stated, I am not a notable man of science. I am a school teacher from the Eastern Slav Republic and ex-resistance fighter. I understand you all have a copy of my file as reported by Agent Kennedy in front of you, but I will admit that much of that was censored by Leon himself for my benefit. During the conflict in 2010, I was infected by a mutated strain of Las Plagas. To be specific, I was infected by a Master Plaga - a parasite with the ability to control all other Plagas within its direct vicinity."

At this, the room was taken aback - including Piers himself. Muted gasps crossed the table like a wave while various men and women outlining the far walls of the room burst into motion and settled the aim of their weapons upon Mr. Kozachenko. The man himself looked uncomfortable, but all in all unaffected by the change in atmosphere in the room. He continued on patiently when the Director did not immediately order his extermination, his gaze keeping hers all the while. He looked nervous, but relieved - like a large weight had been taken from his shoulders.

"As I said before, Las Plagas operate in a hive minded fashion. All of their information is shared with one another and passed on to new Plagas. Ladies and gentlemen, we are talking about  _decades_ of information - centuries even. All in here," he said as he tapped his right temple. "In order to eliminate the creature within me, Leon shot the parasite while it was still growing inside my body. Unfortunately, that meant shooting through my spinal column. I can no longer walk; proving that the existence of the creature within me is gone or else I would have healed by now," he said before anyone could suggest otherwise. "But the information I gained during my infection stayed. I understand intimately how the Plagas operate. Since then, I have used my free time to spread this information to various scientists involved in ending bioterrorism and have gained an acute understanding myself about viral outbreaks, including the C-Virus that the young man before us has obviously learned how to master."

"To be clear, Mr. Kozachenko, we have confirmed reports that during his previous mission, Special Agent Nivans has had difficulty reigning in his new...'abilities'. This has resulted in the rupture of lights and electronic equipment ranging from phones to helicopter controls. We also have confirmed reports of behavior of a more sinister nature; the consumption of electrical energy from the bodies of other creatures, such as a BOWs and people."

Piers felt his skin grow cold at the reminder of what he did to Leon back in Africa and how he could have ended up just as bad off as the BOW he all but devoured. He averted his eyes.

"A soldier new to the field is just as likely to shoot his friend with a bullet as he is his enemy without the proper training. In the span of little more or less a week, Secret Agent Nivans has had to train himself in growing abilities no other agent could possibly sympathize with, all while assisting a team on a highly classified situation. If all that went wrong were a few ruptured light bulbs and a dead BOW, I hardly see why we are here at all," Mr. Kozachenko said, the weight of his gaze shifting to Piers and burning in his peripherals. "I believe what is more important to note is that Agent Nivans does not suffer from any signs of hive-minded behavior. In fact, it is my theory that the nature of his condition - that condition being electricity - has fried the receptors in his brain that would transmit and receive messages from the hive, making him the only man to survive and permanently maintain the virus under his own control. Other than, of course, Jake Muller, Sherry Birkin and Albert Wesker."

A hushed silence filled the room as all eyes fell upon the viral anomaly before them. Piers tried his best not to squirm beneath the weight of so many eyes, instead maintaining his mask of cool, professional indifference.

"To be clear, Mr. Kozachenko, this council has gathered today to make a decision not only as to whether or not Special Agent Nivans is fit for active duty, but also to decide whether or not he should be returned to 24/7 observation. With this in mind, is there any reason why we should doubt this man's loyalty and ability from this day forward?"

Piers looked up to meet the confident gaze of the man defending him. Mr. Kozachenko opened his mouth to answer just as an explosion rocked the facility on its foundations, shaking the building to its core despite its depth beneath the earth. Dust sprinkled down from the ceiling as the council stumbled from their seats, startled. Piers could smell their fear rising, crowding his senses. The lights flickered and for once it wasn't his doing; Piers felt a little proud of that.

A strong kick to the meeting room door from the outside revealed Leon and Sherry on the other side, firearms at the ready as they stormed into the room. Evidently they had been waiting outside to hear the verdict of the trial.

"Madame Director, councilmen - we need to evacuate all non-fighting personnel to the evac-bunker. Now," Leon said, his voice lacking his usual charm as he delivered cold, clipped orders to the room; his face distant and professional. Behind them, Jake filed in behind Sherry, a firearm at the ready in one hand and another, holstered and hanging from his hands. Once he spotted Piers in the middle of the room, he took a few quick strides to him and shoved the familiar firearm into his chest.

"Suit up, Pikachu," he said, not meeting his eyes.

"Excuse me!" One of the councilmen interrupted shrilly, "We have not cleared him for duty yet!"

Leon stepped forward, one hand out to stop Jake or Sherry from rounding on the man before them.

"With all due respect, councilman, we need every experienced soldier with a gun in their hands until we know what's going on. If you're willing to take his place, feel free. Otherwise, shut up, fall in line, and you sure as hell follow his lead if he tells you to do something. Understood?"

"But -"

"And if you think for one second that he even  _needs_ a gun, you're sadly mistaken. Piers Nivans is a good man," Leon said as Sherry helped Piers stand and strap on his holster. "Not only would he die for anyone in this room, he  _has_ died for  _everyone_ in this room. You shouldn't be questioning his loyalty. Not when he just sat here listening to you all debate on whether or not he was even  _human_  and despite that will still stand now to protect you. Now shut up before I make you."

"Madame Director!" The man screeched, his face red and eyes bugged out.

"By all means, I would listen, Charles," she said smoothly as she stood and pulled out a pistol hidden beneath her blazer. "Agent Barlow, please see to it that you and your team escort these men and women to the evac-bunker safely."

Behind her, one of the women lining the walls nodded. "Understood, Madame Director."

"Special Agent Nivans, in light of Mr. Kozachenko's defense, you have been cleared for military duty, no retainer further needed. Please assist Agent Kennedy."

Piers licked the dryness from his lips and swallowed thickly before nodding. "Yes, sir."

"Barlow, start moving the councilmen," she said, and paused as all around them, men and women moved into action, passing around them like a stampede. All the while, the Director held Leon's heavy gaze. When Piers noticed that Mr. Kozachenko had yet to move, he saw one of the soldiers step aside and grab what turned out to be the handles of a wheelchair. As they passed, the man held Piers' gaze with a knowing look and gave him a small, heavy nod. Piers returned it. Leon gave the man a pat on the shoulder as he passed.

"Madame Director," Agent Barlow called from the doorway when all who remained in the room was the Director, Leon, Sherry, Jake, and Piers. Without giving the agent another look, the Director waved them off. "Go, I shall join you shortly."

Moments later, the alarms started blaring, flooding the halls with screeching and flashing red lights.

"Madame Director," Leon said, just loud enough to be heard over the wail of the sirens, "Your orders?"

"You three are responsible for guarding Mr. Muller's life at all costs. You know where to take him, Leon. Agents Nivans and Birkin will answer directly to you. If this is Wesker's doing, see to it that he does not get his hands on Mr. Muller," she said.

"And if Chris is with him?" He asked.

Piers looked at her then, face stony and guarded.

"I defer to your good judgment," she said. When the screaming started to flood the halls followed closely by the inhuman howling of infected, the Director said, "God speed, agents."

Leon gave her a curt nod, then turned on heel to grab Jake at his shoulder and push him forward. Over the din of sirens and howling, Piers could hear Jake's murmured, ' _lay off, pal, I can walk just fine!_ '. He watched as Sherry took off after them, then turned to the Director one last time.

"Thank you," he said, voice hoarse from disuse.

"Give him hell, soldier."

And oh, how Piers would give 'Him' hell - Albert Wesker could count on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] For anyone who is interested in asking questions or requesting mini-fics or head cannons or anything, you can find me on Tumblr @ spazzlings.tumblr.com - also, thank you to everyone who has left Kudos on here; I honestly can't believe this thing has 160 Kudos, it just boggles my mind. Thank you for your support!


	29. The Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written While Listening To - Losing Hope is Freedom by SoundNet

They barely made it two corridors before they encountered the source of the commotion - a huge plume of noxious, bio-altering gas hanging in the hall and spreading like a sentient, malicious thing all its own. Leon held up one fist and silently, his team came to a stop, eyes ahead at the large cloud before them.

"What do we do, that's the shortest way to the hanger," Sherry said, taking small breaths as they all backed up.

"We don't have masks, so we do the only thing we can do," Leon answered. "We go the long way."

Then the walkie-talkie attached to Leon's hip sputtered to life, static and gunshots echoing from his side as someone attempted to contact help.

"This is Captain Pamela Grant," a woman said, her voice hard and thready. "We've lost the lobby. My ground squad is down. Currently holed up in the overhead security room with two snipers. We…"

For a long moment, Piers feared that the line had died, but there was no telltale crackle; just a sudden, sharp breath before the soldier continued.

"We're going to hold them off as long as we can," she said as a man close to her screamed a loud, gory holler moments after a deafening gunshot. "Dante,  _shit_  - Parker, keep firing, he's gone," she barked, then redirected her attention to the radio. "I'm giving my last report before it's too late. We're dealing with three hostiles. Two are identifiable as Albert Wesker and Jill Valentine. The third is unrecognizable; he's wearing something that looks like a partial gas mask - all squads, assume all three are BOWs."

Piers' heart clenched. And then Jake broke their stunned silence.

"My father?"

The soft rubber of Jill's shoes made barely more than a whisper against the tile of the building that housed the pride of the B.S.A.A. She could remember countless memories here. Meetings and gatherings of people all with the same ambition - a world free of bioterrorism. Brave men and women willing to risk their lives and dedicate every waking moment to a cause they might never live to see come to fruition, but hoped to. Years of nanobots and poisonous medications had deadened her expressions and for once, she was glad for it. She couldn't afford sentimentality to give her away now, not when she was so close. Despite the risk, Wesker had decided that she was fit for field duty.

This might be her only chance.

A gunshot broke her from her thoughts. Her gaze leapt across the hall just in time to see one firm boot pinning a young soldier down by the neck, blood bubbling from their lips as they cried out in agony. The first shot had not been a clean one, so the owner of that boot fired again, the muzzle flash illuminating the eerie blue of the murderer's eyes above the hard Kevlar muzzle clamped tightly over his face from the cheeks down. There was a coldness there in those eyes, and that coldness was the last thing that the young man on the floor ever saw before the bullet eradicated the horrified look of recognition from his face. Jill's stomach twisted. He had recognized him. That poor man left this world  _knowing_  Chris Redfield was gone.

Not for the first time she wondered what had happened during her brief stay in the cryotube. All she knew was that when they had gotten back from the Westbarl Estate, Chris has been horribly wounded and unconscious before Wesker had shoved her into that cryotube to heal. When she got out most of her injuries had been dealt with, Wesker thought he had fixed the fried nanobots when he hadn't, and Chris was like this - muzzled, cold and distant. It had terrified her then and it terrified her now. She had meant to check the base's security footage but never had the opportunity to sneak away unobserved before their mission to infiltrate the BSAA began. All she was left with were questions and a pale imitation of a man she once loved - eyes wickedly bright like ice and blank beneath their surface.

"Well done, Christopher," Wesker said from beside her, mouth twisted into a pleased smirk.

Chris snorted, the sound harsh and oddly exaggerated through the thick confines of his muzzle before he removed his boot from the corpse beneath him with a level of disdain that Jill had never seen before in the man. It echoed another man entirely, as if everything that had ever been and ever were Chris Redfield had been poured out and replaced with something else. Someone else.

"True enough," Wesker said, and if it weren't for the oddity of his tone - as if responding to something someone said - Jill would not have realized that the two BOWs were communicating somehow. The realization iced her guts with a dread she could not have anticipated. She rushed to hide her shock and counted her blessings, however few, for the fact that Wesker missed her momentary loss of control.

Telepathy.

"What did he say?" Jill asked before she could stop herself. She felt Wesker's attention turn onto her like a great magnifying glass suddenly swiveling to direct the heat of the sun into her eyes, larger than life and overwhelming. She fought to keep her face plain and unassuming. She was trained to be observant. Hopefully that'd be enough to convince him nothing was the matter.

After a long, searching moment, Wesker sniffed and replied, "Not to congratulate him for killing children. These men were no more a threat than that, after all."

As Wesker passed her by, Jill lifted her gaze only to find Chris' glacial eyes weighing down on her from across the room. She searched for longer than she should have, desperately hoping to catch a glint of something,  _anything_ , within those eyes. But there was nothing. His eyes were more like mirrors than windows. She could only see herself staring back. Either they were both good actors or only one of them was lying - and she knew who.

"Christopher," Wesker said, drawing the silent man's gaze. In an instant his entire demeanor changed from closed off to open and alert. "Fetch our kin for me, won't you?"

There was a moment that held a heavy loaded silence until finally Wesker nodded and turned his gaze to Jill.

"Go with him. See to it that it actually gets done this time. The consequences should this go afoul again will not be as forgiving as last time."

"I understand," Jill said and couldn't shake the sudden feeling that it was no longer Chris' motivations that required surveillance, but hers.

Wesker nodded, eyes trailing between the two of them. "If you encounter anyone who is not the target, kill them."

With one grave, heavy nod, Chris took that as their cue to go and started towards the doors that led deeper into the stronghold. Jill began to follow suit, only stopping when Wesker's hand suddenly shot out and stopped the other BOW as he passed, their shoulders brushing. Wesker leaned into Chris' space and said, "And if you should by any chance see that underling of yours, what's his name -  _Nivans_ …," he licked his lips, "Kill him. Personally. Understood?"

At first there was only silence, and Jill couldn't help but wonder if they were speaking telepathically again. But then Chris turned his face towards the older BOW, the gesture slow as he raised his eyes to look into Wesker's gaze directly and rasped, "Consider it done."

* * *

"This is my fucking  _father_  we're talking about," Jake shouted, shoving roughly at Leon's chest as the man advanced on his space. "You don't get to tell me what to do when it comes to this!"

"That's where you're wrong. I'm under orders to get your ass out of this facility in one piece, and if that means I have to knock you unconscious and drag you, then that's what's going to happen," Leon said, regaining any ground lost from the shove and then some, his face mere inches from Jake's.

"You asshats told me he was dead," Jake snarled, then glared at Sherry from over Leon's shoulder as she caught his eye, " _You_ told me he was dead, and you knew, didn't you?  _You knew_  and you've been lying to me all this time!"

Sherry said nothing, her expression clearly guilty but unyielding. Piers could see it in her body language - she regret the necessity, not the action. Jake must have seen it too, based off the way his face fell.

"Jake, man, now's not the time," Piers tried, hand reaching for the irate man's shoulder only to be viciously batted away.

"No!" He shoved his finger in Piers' face accusatorily, "I've done nothing but listen to other people's orders these past few months and you know what that got me? A shit ton of  _lies_. I'm done playing soldier with you people. That man owes me answers and I plan on getting them!"

Leon went from still to violent in seconds, hands shoving the taller youth and pinning him to wall with a show of force Piers had never seen the man use on a comrade. Then Leon's forearm was at Jake's throat and pressing, and Piers felt the situation unraveling around them as the smoke kept crawling closer and the yowling grew louder. Leon snarled like an animal in Jake's face.

"That man owes everyone answers, Jake. Everyone. And there's a lot of people who have been dealing with that man's shit for a hell of a lot longer than you. But you go looking for him and you're giving him what he wants. You go looking for him and you're practically begging to let him win," he shoved his forearm in a little deeper, Jake's hands and feet scrabbling for purchase as his face choked between furious and surprised. "I've had to watch too many friends die for you, and I'll be damned if that's happening tonight, too. So you're going to shut the fuck up about talking to your father and you are going to follow me to the helicopter or so help me God, I will end this now and shoot you myself."

Jake fell still, eyes searching Leon's as he digested those words. His face turned stony soon after. Sherry stepped forward, breaking the heavy silence as she grabbed for Leon's arms.

"Stop it, Leon. That's enough!"

Leon did not budge, his eyes glacial and frozen on Jake with a look Piers had never seen before.

"Do we understand each other?"

"Leon!" Sherry said again, her voice breathy as she realized Leon was not letting go.

Jake merely glared at him.

"Do we understand each other?" Leon asked with more force, his face jamming even closer. Chin raised, Jake made a show of swallowing down his disgust before spitting, "Yeah, I think we do," and it was evident from his eyes and every bone in his body that it had only served to make things worse. And just like that, Leon let go - shoving Jake against the wall again to distract him as he put a safe amount of space between the two of them.

"Jesus," Sherry said, pitch high, "What the hell, Leon?!"

Leon didn't answer - eyes still sharp and focused on Jake. Jake lifted his jaw and stared down his nose at him, hand rubbing at his abused throat. When Sherry reached for him, he roughly jerked away.

"Jake," she said.

"Don't."

And then a gunshot. Across the hall and in the thickening smoke, a body dropped - hands outstretched and grasping as it howled. In response, a dozen others answered from deeper within the smoke. Leon, Sherry and Jake looked from the body to the smoking gun and the man who held it. Piers lowered his weapon and said, "Alright, all emotional baggage -  _all of it_  - drops here. We're out of time."

And just like that, their reprieve was over - the element of surprise gone. The shrieking grew louder. The infected knew where they were.

* * *

It was harder than she thought to keep pace with the man once he got moving. Chris' pace was not exactly fast, but his gait was wide and powerful - closing distance throughout the halls as if he were marching to war. Jill's still healing ribs ached within her as she sped up her step to keep up with him yet again.

"Wait," she said as the large plume of noxious gas ahead came into sight.

Surprisingly, Chris did. All at once, he came to a stop and slowly swiveled his gaze to regard her. A shiver passed down her spine, but she ignored it. Instead, she tipped her head in the direction of the gas.

"That gas is ours. One of our agents must've deployed early. Gas wasn't supposed to go off until after we're out. We should go around."

She tried not to flinch when Chris spoke through the blood stained muzzle Wesker had strapped tightly around his jaw.

"Jake is immune to the gas. If one of our people deployed it early, they had a reason. Likely to stop the targets from escaping. We're headed in the right direction."

"Jake is immune, but Jake doesn't know that. Plus, where Jake is, Leon is and I know he's not immune. They won't go through that fog. If the gas is here, then they're gone," she said as passively as she could, as if merely commenting on the weather rather than attempting to lie and save Leon time. If a bomb went off early, she knew as well as Chris did what that meant. The instructions to the sleeper agents were clear. Bombs were not to go off unless the opportunity to cripple the BSAA arose. That meant killing the President or councilmen, any world leaders or any senior staff members of the organization.

And of course, to reroute and apprehend Jake should he try to escape.

Chris looked up at the gas and stared for a long moment, his eyes almost losing focus before he shook his head and grunted. "No, he's there. Let's go."

In her gut, a coil of tension released as another tightened in its stead. Chris had not picked up on her blatant lie, but her lie had not worked either. Holding back the heavy sigh in her chest, she instead reached down to her belt and began the process of attaching the gas mask to her face. She forced herself to ignore the fact that Chris did not have one. She wondered if that's was the muzzle was for.

She knew it wasn't.

Chris waited for her to finish applying the mask, then studied her for a long moment after she was done. She was about to ask him what was wrong when he leaned in suddenly, eyes still blank at he inspected the mask. When he was apparently satisfied, he grunted with a little nod and started for the fog. She wondered if his momentary concern for her wellbeing was because he knew she was one of Wesker's playthings, and therefore not to be broken - or if it was muscle memory from another life.

"They're in there," Chris said as they approached the thick fog.

And where there was fog, there would be no end of atrocious things within it. Jill readied her weapon only to be surprised when a far gentler than expected hand pushed her weapon at ease. She looked up at Chris like he was crazy. She wondered if he was.

"You won't need it."

And then he disappeared into the fog without another word. She watched his towering black figure get swallowed up before she rushed after him, firearm still at the ready regardless. He had waited for her again she realized as she caught up to him far more quickly than expected. The gas was far denser than she had ever experienced before, and despite the fact that she knew the mask would protect her, every intake of breath felt thinner and thinner.

It wasn't long until they reached the first creature. The thing had recently turned, judging by the thin gloss of ooze still coating its twitching body. It heard their approach and jerked up from its prone position on the floor, jaws slobbering with thick strings of bile and drool as it looked at them with large, glassy eyes. It was a Shrieker - it's throat swollen with inflammation and thick, tumorous tissue that pulsed wetly with each labored breath. Jill turned her gaze to Chris, suddenly worried what the harmful call of the Shrieker would do to his new and sensitive hearing. Chris, on the other hand, did not seem to be worried at all. In fact, the man just kept walking - his pace never slowing as he neared the violent creature.

As they approached, the Shrieker scuttled onto all four limbs, nimbly shuffling back and forth as it regarded them. Its eyes fell on Jill often - the gesture often followed by a grotesque lick of its tattered lips. But no sooner than it did, it would look away, its eyes shying away from Chris. It scented the air curiously, but surely could not pick up much more than gas until finally Chris was nearly upon it. That was when it caught scent of him and began to whimper wildly, the whites of its eyes bright in the fog as it scuttled backwards on all its limbs and huddled in the corner. Chris did not pay it so much as a single glance. Nor the next one or the next.

The infected grew more populated as they reached the epicenter of the gas cloud. Jill thought she should be surprised at just how far the gas had managed to spread, but she wasn't. Wesker was nothing if not thorough when it came to things like this. At the heart of the explosion, there were thick mobs of people. Some with guns and familiar uniforms, some in lab coats, some in civvies - all of them thrashing and growling and spitting at one another with wide eyes and knobby hands. The C-Virus had affected them all differently, but one thing remained the same - all of them feared Chris. Without a sound, he split the sea of infected as if he were merely walking through a crowd of normal people. Left and right, infected moved out of their way for him. Some whimpering, some cowering, some reaching out to him in a sick sort of reverence.

They were halfway through the hoard when a gunshot sounded, and just like that Jill and Chris were forgotten as the simpleminded hoard rushed forward towards the source of the sound, some on all fours and scrabbling over one another to press forward. Chris stay rooted to where he stood like a great tree in a hurricane, his form unyielding in the great tide of writhing bodies. Infected pressed in from all sides, and Jill felt overwhelmed by the stench and the movement and the yowling. It wasn't until it was over and the hoard had passed that she realized that Chris had pinned her to his body - his large arms braced around her to ward off the rambunctious infected in their momentary craze. She pulled back, heart pounding as she searched his face desperately and let out a small, brave, "Chris?"

But he wasn't looking at her. Instead, his eyes were focused straight ahead, his head perked as if listening to something far away.

"I told you he was here," Chris said simply, and Jill took his moment of distraction to compose herself. She chastised herself for hoping, pulled herself together, and when she met his gaze again, she reflected his cold professionalism right back at him.

"Then let's go get him," she said, and followed Chris into the haze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] As always, thank you for the patience, and most importantly for your support - your kind words of encouragement mean so much to me. This fic would not be so far without you kind and frequent readers.


	30. The Unraveling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: "Unraveling" by Harry Escott

"How many of you assholes are on this base!" Jake shouted over another chatter of gunfire, mowing down the J'avo shambling towards him. He turned a furious look to Piers as though he were responsible.

"It's a military base, what the hell do you think?" Piers snapped, then ducked as Jake lifted his gun to aim at a particular stealthy J'avo that had very nearly snuck up on him. "This is one of the most congested work areas on the base, it's bound to be bad!"

"Just keep moving back," Leon said as he dealt a hard, heavy kick to a J'avo's chest - sending it flying into a small cluster that had been gaining ground on him.

"We can't, they're coming from behind too," Sherry said from her position at the tail of the group. Piers felt a trail of cold sweat slide down the back of his neck. They were stuck in a narrow hallway and there were infected coming at them from both sides. It was impossible to know which side would have more J'avo lying in wait for them. The only certainty was that to go forward would end in death for anyone not immune to Wesker's poisonous fog, and Piers wasn't about to lose another teammate.

"Doesn't matter, Sherry, it's our only option," he said as he shouldered past the two men beside him and started to assist her in mowing down the shambling targets heading their way. Just as Piers felt like they were finally starting to get the upper hand on the situation, Leon's chamber clicked empty.

"Son of a bitch," he heard the man snarl before the telltale whack of a gun stock slamming into a J'avo's face echoed through the hall. "I'm out!"

"Shit," Jake spat soon after, "I'm close to. We need to move. Now."

"We still got a shit ton of them behind us, boys," Sherry said, tone tight over the chatter of her weapon.

"And we got fucking Shriekers coming up on us over here, Sherry! We don't have a choice!" Jake yelled back.

"Shit," she whispered as she lunged forward to slam a particularly grabby J'avo to the floor. A second later, she had her knife buried deep in its forehead. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Jake was about to open his mouth and respond in kind when Leon suddenly cut him off, hand brushing sweat from his eyes as he let a soft, astonished, "What the hell?"

Piers turned to follow his gaze only to see the infected that had been plaguing Leon and Jake suddenly all lower themselves to the floor, bellies nearly touching the ground as they shivered and stared back at the fog with wide, white eyes. They whimpered piteously, and some seemed torn between cowering as they were and continuing the fight - leaving them scuttling back and forth anxiously before them. A quick look at their escape route confirmed that the J'avo blocking Sherry's way were behaving similarly.

"I don't know what the hell is going on, but let's take advantage of this while we can!" Piers said, grabbing Jake by the elbow and turning him forcefully around to face their escape before running for the opening as well. It was then that he heard it. Behind them and beneath the whimpering of the infected was the echo of two sets of footsteps - both confident and heavy as they approached. Piers shuddered, twisting in place to look behind him. Leon passed him, mouth moving but Piers couldn't hear the words beneath the focus he had on the source of the sound.

And through the fog, he saw them. A woman in a gas mask, her suit tight and constricting around her body - Jill Valentine. The last time he had seen her, the BSAA's traitor had turned into their savor. But judging by her blank expression and icy gaze, that woman was gone once again - replaced by the programming and nanobots Chris had told him about from his fight with her in Africa. And just in front of her was the very man himself. Suited up in black fatigues and thick Kevlar armor, his former captain looked more like a demon than a man as he emerged from the smoke. He didn't wear a gas mask, but every part of his face from the bridge of his nose down was covered by a hard, Kevlar plated half mask, making the eyes that glowed above it look that much paler in contrast. Piers shivered.

"Chris?" he asked.

The figure looked at him, his attention diverting from the entirety of their group to solely Piers. The scrutiny of his gaze was jarring, stealing all courage from Piers' limbs as he stared down the man before him. He thought of his nightmares. Of Chris walking through smoke and fire to kill him, his pace steady and no less blank as he tore Piers' heart from his chest.

Hands grabbed him from behind, grasping desperately at his shoulders as he watched Jill simultaneously slow down - a peculiar look in her eyes - and Chris pick up speed, his gait lengthening as he approached. Eyes fixed on Piers, then on Jake.

"Piers, come on!" Leon shouted desperately. "Move!"

"No, it's him!" Piers said. His mind felt numb, like there was wool in his head. He didn't know if he was shouting or whispering, and everything felt so slow as he struggled against the hands that pulled at him. So focused was he on freeing himself, he didn't notice the weapon raising before him until the gunshot sounded. The infected all howled in dismay and excitement, and Piers felt his body suddenly stand stock still - heart pounding so hard against his chest he could barely tell one beat from the next. There was a sharp sting at the very edge of his brow, spanning from the end of his eyebrow to the edge of his ear. His ears were ringing, and he couldn't quite grasp the fact that Chris' weapon - if that was in fact Chris, he reminded himself on reflex - was still trained on him and coming closer as the man approached. The thoughts 'he shot at me' were closely followed by an astonished 'he missed'. Next he registered that the right side of his face and neck, just below the burning sting, was soaked warm and cooling rapidly.

He let Leon take him then, eyes wide as he turned his gaze from the man hell-bent on pursuing them to their escape. Leon kept a firm, anchoring hand at his elbow as they ran. Leon was shouting something, but Piers couldn't hear. He was faintly aware of the fact that he may have murmured "he shot me" more than once.

Another gunshot - the sound of it further muting his hearing - and suddenly Jake stumbled, the side of his calf bursting into an ugly spray against one of the hallway walls as he fell to the floor. Sherry lunged to catch his fall and missed. She stumbled to her knees and grasped at him, trying to pull him up, but couldn't. Jake's face was twisted in brutal agony. He grasped his leg with trembling hands, but blood still welled up through his fingers, making a mess of the floor around him.

"Sherry, cover me!" Leon shouted. She looked up at him and for the first time, Piers thought she looked like a deer caught in headlights. But the look was soon gone, and as she sprung past them - gun lighting up the hallway - and Leon threw Piers at Jake.

"Pick him up," Leon said, "You're the only one who can do it all the way across the base without getting tired!"

After a few cotton-minded moments of numbness, Piers handed his weapon to Leon and grabbed Jake, pulling the man into a hasty fireman's carry before running for their exit. Surprisingly, Jake let him do it. Piers didn't know if it was the pain or the disorientation or the blood loss, but the crippled man allowed himself to be carried all the way to the end of the hall before he started flailing, voice suddenly howling and hands beating at his back.

"Go back! Go back!" Jake shouted.

"What? Jesus, what the hell, Jake?!"

The gunfire had ceased, the hallway suddenly silent but for the murmuring of the infected and Piers' retreating steps. He turned back slightly to look, in the process blocking Jake's gaze as he took in the scene behind him.

Chris had Leon in a chokehold, the agent's feet hanging and swinging violently a good two feet off the ground, all while he leveled the long barrel of his magnum without hesitation to Sherry's unconscious form slumped against the wall. There was blood at the corner of her forehead. She wasn't moving.

Piers saw Chris' finger begin to tighten on the trigger. He moved on instinct, one hand leaving it's hold of Jake's body to reach out. It felt surreal. Like his nightmare, but worse.

"Chris," he pleaded, "Don't!"

Blue, vacant eyes turned to regard him - blank and unfathomable - and Piers closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look. The hallway's emergency lights all flickered erratically, then went out. Piers screamed; the sound raw and wounded. And then he shot his captain.

Lightning leapt from his palm and lit up the hallway for a few short seconds before slamming into Chris. His former captain shouted, his howl closely followed by Leon's, and suddenly the two men were untangled and on the floor, bodies shivering with residual energy from Piers' attack.

The hall was dark and quiet but for the backwards scurrying of the infected as they retreated in fear. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he could see Leon and Sherry still prone and splayed where Chris had left them. Chris, however, was already rising to his feet as if Piers' attack had done nothing more than surprise him. Sharp eyes glowered at him from down the hall, and the blankness was gone now. In its wake was intent, cold and ruthless above the dark mask that hid his face. Chris growled from deep in his chest, and Piers swore he could feel the vibration of it in his shoes.

"Chris, please don't do this."

The BOW before him didn't move, but he didn't back away either - and it was suddenly clear to him that Chris wanted him to set Jake down. He could not risk attacking Piers and hurting Jake, after all. Piers tightened his hold on the man across his shoulders, then glanced at his injured leg. He gently lowered him to his feet. With a steadying hand at his arm, Piers leaned the man against the nearest wall.

Jake looked at Chris, then at the crumpled bodies that lay at his feet. His jaw was tight and clicking as he swallowed.

"Piers?" he asked as Piers drew his gaze away from Chris.

Jake looked him in the face, searching for hesitancy. Piers nodded and whispered a quick 'play along' before turning to face Chris as he suddenly pressed his hand to Jake's face - engulfing it with the width of his palm and fingers. He released a gentle haze of static to sizzle and pop innocently at his fingertips, but it looked nothing short of threatening. Jake's longer, unkempt hair after months of playing lab rat suddenly began to rise foolishly as if rubbed by a balloon.

He heard Chris step forward before he saw it.

"Back off!"

He glared his former captain down, gauging his position in the darkness more by the glow of his unnatural eyes than his bulk. Chris stilled and growled again.

"You wouldn't," Chris said. He's your friend, went unsaid. Piers swallowed down the words 'yea, well, you are, too' and forced out something altogether more unpleasant instead.

"Wesker wants him alive. To recreate his so-called "cure", right? Which means killing him isn't such a bad idea right now in my books. So back. The fuck. Up."

Chris gave him a considering look, his head tilting with an avian detachment that made Piers' skin crawl. There was a long pause where Piers hoped that the man would retreat, but with a cold twist of dread that he knew was coming, he watched the man lift one large boot and rest its rubber tread atop Leon's skull instead. He pressed lightly, forcing an unconscious moan from the agent's lips in warning before he stopped the pressure there. Leon's fingers twitched, but did nothing more.

"A life for a life," Chris said, confirming Piers' suspicion once and for all. Wesker wanted Jake alive. And Piers wasn't merely human trash to be thrown aside and discarded. If given the chance, Chris would kill him - but if it had been Leon in his shoes and not Piers, Chris would have already taken Jake by force. He believed Piers to be worthy of caution. So a threat he would have to be.

No matter the cost.

"You kill him and Jake is dead," Piers said. He raised his chin a little as Chris glared him down with assessing eyes. In response, Chris pressed a little harder. Piers heard the soft, innocent pop of cartilage from Leon's jaw. Nothing serious, but a dangerous sign of what was to come.

In response, Piers shocked Jake for a good three seconds. The force he put into it was barely anything at all. It was all flash and no bang, but just as he had hoped, Jake had been listening to him and played along. The ex-mercenary suddenly howled, jaw wide and body quivering tightly as though being tazed. Chris stiffened, every muscle in his inhuman body drawing up so tightly Piers could have sworn he could hear the man's cloths groaning in protest. A gibbering, human instinct whispered frantically that he should run. Something else raised its hackles and stayed.

"You're right. He is my friend," Piers said. "But it's his life or billions. Don't make me make that decision, 'cause God help me, Chris - I'll do it. Now back. Up."

Another long moment passed before that large black boot begrudgingly lifted from Leon's face, leaving puffy bruised skin in its wake. Leon groaned and began to shift at Chris' feet, but did not stir much more than that.

The sheer focus of Chris' gaze upon him made him want to hide. He felt like an mouse trying to frog-march a lion, and a very angry one at that. He forced the feeling down as Chris tucked his chin to further impress a more menacing glare upon him.

"Now what?" Chris asked, and Piers couldn't help but feel more like a child being allowed his whims during a small temper tantrum rather than a soldier in control of a dangerous situation. His heart stalled and his mind grasped at straws as to what to say next. For all his bravado, he had no clue as to what to do next. If he released Jake to go get Sherry and Leon - if the injured man could even get that far - Chris would merely take him. If he tried to lure him away to fight, he had no way of protecting his charge. He couldn't fight with or without him. It was a stalemate. If Chris advanced, he'd have to either fold or act on his bluff. It was only a matter of time. Piers clenched his jaw, hyper-aware of the blood oozing sluggishly down his neck and stiffening the hem of his collar. A reminder that the man before him was not Chris Redfield.

With the way Leon had shifted, Piers could no longer see his face. Sherry was still unconscious. He was alone in this. He could feel Jake's gaze piercing through the side of his face from between his fingers, waiting. He could feel the hole Chris' eyes were burning into his head. There was no way out of this.

He braced himself to make a decision he hoped he wouldn't have to live with for long. Jake sensed it. He knew. Chris tensed before them.

And then there was screaming as the silence and the tension was suddenly cut in half and shattered by Jill Valentine. He had completely forgotten her presence, her form so easily blocked out by Chris' bulk and menace. Now he tried to wrap his mind around the scene that was before him. Jill Valentine - traitor of the BSAA and right hand man to the very vermin that had abducted and changed Chris Redfield - was now atop the man. She had her thighs twisted tight around his neck and her fingers gouging into his eyes as she suddenly hauled her weight back and forced him to topple over before vaulting off his shoulders and settling into a neat, respectable crouch. It was like deja vu, and for a brief moment Piers couldn't help but remember how she had distracted Wesker in the very same way mere days ago. Their traitor was once again their savor. His mind tripped and fumbled to understand why Wesker would allow her on the field if he wasn't assured of her loyalty, but bookmarked the thought for now in lieu of the situation. This might be his only chance. Chris was already rising to his feet when she caught his gaze from over-top him.

"Take Jake and run!" She spat, as if he were no more intelligent than a dog, before she flung herself forward to knee Chris in the face. It clicked all at once that Chris wouldn't harm Leon or Sherry. If Piers gained enough ground, he'd be too caught up with finding them to bother. Probably. It was a calculated risk. One that he was judging off the say-so of a traitor, but in his gut he knew it to be true. From the get go, he had only had his sights set on Jake and himself. Grabbing the two unconscious agents from the ground would be a waste of time too valuable and would only slow them down. With a quick shock to incapacitate Jake from arguing, Piers quickly flung the man back into a fireman's carry and started sprinting for the lift he knew to be several halls down.

His heart was thundering in his ear. If felt like he could hear the sudden chorusing of the infected from every corridor as he ran - their number suddenly massive and unfathomable beyond the walls that surrounded him. He wondered if there was a reason. If Chris had control of them and was sending a wall of death upon him right this very second. But every boot step got him further away from Chris and closer to the empty halls that led to the hanger. He was grateful for that.

He could feel Jake stirring from atop his shoulders. The movement was light, but the man would come to sooner than later and Piers didn't look forward to having to convince him of his decision to leave their teammates behind. His stomach clenched as he thought of Finn and the others. His throat tightened as he thought of how often he had had to make this very decision. He hoped it wouldn't end the same way, for once. He forced the thoughts down as a woman's scream tore violently through the halls of the complex, followed by three distinctive gunshots. He told himself it had been an echo. He tried to convince himself there had only been one as he forced himself forward. He didn't have the luxury of time; Chris was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] Sing it with me now - I am a horrible per~son! Sorry about the cliffhanger, but I just couldn't help it. The more I thought about it, the more it felt like a nice, solid pause until the next chapter. More to come shortly, I hope! Thank you to everyone who has been following this story for nearly two damn years now. I honestly thought I'd be done by now… We're approaching the three-quarters of the way there mark, but it's still not done. Crazy. But seriously, thank you to everyone who comments on and comments/kudos on AO3 - you guys seriously make my day every time and I still can't even fathom the amount of support this story has gotten. You guys are an inspiration. I hope you continue to enjoy the read!


	31. The Last Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: "No Time For Caution" by Hans Zimmer (Interstellar OST)

There's a moment in every person's life when they realize that things are not going to work out for them, and it is always followed by the same thing - a soft, pervasive "no" of revelation. Of defeat. It is whispered through slack lips just before a car collision; whimpered after a heart monitor suddenly bleats out one final, nagging note. It is the sound of good overcome by evil, of man decimated by nature - dreams shattered on the pavement.

It passes over everyone at least once in their life, and Piers felt it pass over him now. His palms felt cold and clammy beneath the gloves that covered them. The wound across his temple throbbed, the bleeding slow and oozy. His skin felt tight, his brow wet, his heart too heavy for his chest. Oxygen too thin as he tried to pull it in. His world suddenly surreal as he realized the elevator would not come in time. He closed his eyes and listened to the distant _beep, beep, beep_ of the lift descending.

He jammed his thumb into the elevator call button multiple times, but it didn't make the thing come any faster. He could feel his heart thumping against his aching ribs, pulsing painfully as he kept throwing quick looks over his shoulder at the barren hallway behind him. His heart hitched painfully as the first sound of a distant footfall appeared gently beneath the soft beeping of the elevator. He gnashed his teeth and lowered Jake to the ground as quickly as he could without harming him, then spun on heel to face the hallway, hand at the ready. His fingers crackled a warning growl into the air around him. He waited.

"Please," he whispered. Please _what_ , he didn't know. Please God don't send my friend to kill me. Please let this be another bad dream. Please let him come too late. Please tell me he didn't kill Leon or Sherry. Please let me do this. Please don't let anyone else die. Please don't take anyone else from me. Please don't make me kill him.

_Please don't let me die._

He tried to control his breathing, tried to force himself not to lose composure when Chris finally stepped into the hallway a hundred feet away - his black uniform a dark smudge against the crisp white walls of the military facility. Chris stopped in the middle of the hall's intersection as though he were a large predator in a quiet forest - scouting out his prey. Piers remained still and tried to make himself look as big and threatening as he could. The electricity in his palm began to sing more fiercely, rising up like a dog's growl. And then Chris turned to face him, his eyes bitter lights in the dark mask of his face.

"Stop where you are," Piers said. His demands echoed hollowly in the long white stretch of the hall. Behind him, Jake stirred but did not wake. It did, however, draw Chris' attention. He took a step forward, and Piers could hear the loud squelch of his shoes on the linoleum. His boot left a red smudge in its wake. Piers' eyes burned. "Don't come any closer."

Chris took another two steps forward.

"I'll kill him," Piers said, directing his other hand to point at Jake's face. The electricity in his palm leapt and cracked innocently where he held it, lighting up the unconscious man's features in small, unpredictable bursts. Piers watched his former captain come to a barely restrained stop.

"No, you won't," Chris said, and then he lunged forward, practically flying down the hallway - each long stride propelling him even further than the one before it.

"Shit," Piers snarled, hurtling both arms forward and releasing a torrent of electricity. The lights above them cut off and on erratically, and the speed with which Chris was clearing ground between each flash of light made Piers' heart stutter. The man dodged the arc of electricity and then he was close, so close.

 _I'm not going to make it._ He thought, body twisting just in time to miss the powerful strike Chris had aimed at his chest. Piers curved left and brought one hand against Chris' abs just as the man grabbed his free wrist and released a long, endless current of electricity into his body. It locked Chris' body into a painful, stiff arc of rigid muscle, and Piers could feel the man shaking through the hand that clutched his wrist like iron. Chris howled, and the deep baritone of it sent shudders all the way into Piers' boots.

_I'm going to die in this hallway._

_He's going to kill me._

The light of his attack was all that served to illuminate the space around them, and between the sporadic flashes of his palms, Piers could see Chris' face transform from robotic obedience to absolute fury. Despite being unable to move, he showed no sign of succumbing to the electrical attack; and just as Piers wondered how long he could hold the charge that currently kept them at a stalemate, Chris overcame the current and forced himself to slowly wrap one large, shaking hand around Piers' neck and _lift._ His boots left the ground.

Piers gasped, his airway suddenly sharply closed. He flailed, and the electricity from his hand became unpredictable and unfocused as it leapt all around them. He could feel blood pooling in his head, the pressure nearly blinding as spots danced before his eyes. All he could hear was the crackle of electricity and the sound of his own barely existent breathing before he closed his eyes.

 _"There will come a day when you will face death," a voice said from somewhere in the blackness. "It is one of the few things every human on this planet shares equally - the inevitability of death. Whether it's on the battlefield or in your bed, you will die. Maybe you'll get to choose why or how or when, but you probably won't. And in the anticipation of your death, there will be a moment where you will_ _have a choice…_

 _"And that choice is_ how you'll meet it _."_

Piers remembered his captain's face as he had told him that once, entrenched with his men and surrounded. There had been a look of worn-out wisdom there, a heavy weariness. But there had been something else, too - something stronger, something brighter. It blazed like fire in his eyes. He remembered recognizing it in his captain then and he recognized it rising up in himself now. A basic, human instinct to spit into a coming tornado and hold your ground. To meet death not like a friend, but like a hurricane. And with that strength, he forced strength into his hands and reached up to lessen Chris' grip. Not permanently; there would be no escaping this. But just enough to take in one, gulping breath and use his remaining time on the one thing he thought would make the most difference in that moment. He thought about how life would move on without him and he thought about how things might play out once he was gone. He thought about the lies that Wesker would continue to plant into his friend's head, and for the first time since looking for Chris, he thought of a way to help him - however slim the chances that it worked.

He licked his lips, his hands lighting up the shock on Chris' face once, twice - then whispered.

"I…" he struggled against the grip that was tightening around his throat.

"I forgive you," he wheezed. "And…" his throat nearly closed, but he forced himself to finish, "I still believe in you."

And then the blackness rushed in all at once, closely followed by a bang. Piers fell, and feverishly he thought - _oh God, no, I'm going to hell_ \- before his knees met the ground with a crack and he tumbled shoulders first into the floor. Air rushed into his lungs so quickly he thought he might vomit, but he didn't. Above them, the lights flickered twice, and then the dull red glow of back-up generators kicked on just in time for Piers to look up and see Chris a foot away and on his knees, face cradled in the large span of his hands as he let out a wet, ugly howl. Blood oozed up through his fingers, dripping to the floor in thick, steaming plops.

On the floor between them lay the Kevlar mask, the material shattered and broken all along the left side of the jaw line. But it was what was inside the mask that gave him pause. With shuddering fingers, he reached for it - pulling the shattered armor close until he could see the strange netting within that allowed Chris to breathe. It was covered in a thick, black paste of old blood - still wet, but not fresh enough to be caused from Chris' wound. It smelled noxious to him. Piers gagged.

"W-what is this?"

"Get your ass moving, Nivans!" Jake yelled suddenly from behind him. He jerked around to see Jake just as the young man was shuffling himself on his butt backwards into the now open elevator by both hands, his crippled legs hanging out before him. In Jake's lap lay the gun Piers could only guess had saved him, and not just any gun - a Magnum.

He chanced a quick glance back at Chris just in time to see to the grotesque hang of the jaw that had detached from the left side of his face before he gently eased it back into its joint with trembling fingers. Before Piers' very eyes, the remaining flesh of Chris' cheek immediately began to reach around the joint and interlace back into a seamless patch of skin and tissue. Piers gagged against the rising gorge in his already burning throat and flipped quickly onto his hands and feet. He scuttled towards the elevator on all fours before diving into the lift. He raised himself to his knees just in time to see Chris turn to face him - eyes wide and startlingly human.

"Piers," he stammered, his face now completely healed, and Piers shuddered as he realized that that only evidence left behind from the wound was the blood that smothered the whole lower half of Chris' face. It made his features look monstrous in the dull light of the hallway, and clashed painfully against the raw, horrified recognition that had finally returned to his captain's eyes. Time slowed as Piers watched the man look from the shattered mask on the floor to Jake who laid curled against the elevator wall behind him. A thousand unreadable thoughts crossed through Chris' face, and then something changed in his expression altogether. Grief gave way to fear, and fear to terror.  He perked up as though hearing something dreadful. Piers listened too and heard nothing.

"Chris?" Piers whispered, hand halfway to the elevator's control panel as Chris pulled his own gun from its holster and held it in his lap. He covered the barrel with one hand, the other curled around its grip.

"There's no time," Piers heard him mumble, eyes alight with a fear that Piers couldn't understand. "He's coming and _I can't_ -" he choked, something flashing eerily across his eyes until he shook it away. "I'm sorry, this is the only way."

And then Piers connected the dots.

 

_No._

"Chris, don’t!" he yelled, lunging for the control panel and slamming his hand against the 'close doors' button. The doors began to draw together, narrowing the view of his friend and the hallway behind it. In the distance, he thought he could see the outline of a man just as a flash obscured his vision, shortly followed by a gunshot muffled beneath the flesh of Chris' hand. He tried to block the shot - bracing himself for impact - but the impact never came. He opened his eyes just in time to see Chris before the doors finished closing.  

"I'm sorry," Chris said, cradling his ruined hand in his lap, and then he was gone. The doors closed and the elevator began to rise. Moments later he heard the sound of a large impact, followed by a panicked scuffle. Then screaming.

His stomach sat hollowly in his gut, bile cold and tangy in his mouth as he whirled hands already outstretched to press against the gunshot wound burbling thick globs of blood from Jake's shoulder.

"Jake! Jake, can you hear me?"

The man beneath his hands slid further into the floor, eyes fluttering. Thick, red liquid rose up hotly against Piers' hands and slipped past his fingers as he stammered out exhausted words of comfort to the pale, barely conscious man before him.

"Stay with me, Jake," he said over and over again as they rose closer and closer to the surface. He placed two fingers to the communication device in his ear and only received a sharp, warbling note from the fried technology for his efforts.

"Shit! _Shit!_ C'mon Jake, stay with me," he said, returning both hands to the wound. "People are waiting in the hanger for us, they have to be. It's going to be okay, man, just stay with me. Just stay with me."

"Sherry?" He heard Jake mumble, "Where's Sherry? Is she…"

"She's fine," he lied. "It's all going to be okay."

He forced himself to shut off all thought other than saving Jake and escaping. He couldn't think about the look on Chris' face or how he made the decision Piers had threatened to make himself mere moments ago, but couldn't. He couldn't think about the screaming or the friends he was leaving behind. There was no time for that now and there was nothing about any of it that he could change. He'd have the rest of his life to dwell on those regrets, so focused on what he could change now. He pressed his hands into Jake's wound, counted the floors at they passed, and prayed.

 

* * *

Chris watched the doors close, and as they did, he saw Wesker's reflection approaching in the silver chrome before him. He trembled, heart pounding like a frightened animal in his chest.

"So you let them get away," Wesker drawled, eyes trailing from Chris' kneeling form to the elevator behind him, then back again. "That C-Virus abomination lives, you shot my son, and you lost your mask."

Chris licked his lips, but didn't know what to say - mind lost between two worlds. The words _I'm sorry_ hung tight on the tip of tongue, right next to _that's right, you prick_. He moaned, head clenched in his hands as it throbbed. He remembered the abomination's - no, _Piers'_ face. What he said. _Oh God, Piers…_

A voice told him to grovel for forgiveness. Another told him to fight. He couldn't remember which was right.

"Ssh, it's alright, Chris," Wesker said. "I know you're confused. Let me help."

Chris' eyes caught the BOW's movement and watched as Wesker took a knife from his holster and suddenly sliced the blade deep across the palm of his hand. Wesker's blood dripped onto the floor as he reached for the pack at his waist and pulled another mask from it. Chris watched as he smeared his torn open hand across the webbing within the muzzle and smiled.

Every muscle in Chris' body tightened suddenly, his heart rate skyrocketing as memories suddenly flooded him.

_"Let me make it easier for you, Christopher," a soothing voice had said amidst the pain and the agony and the burning from his shoulder. "Let me reward you for your loyalty. Let me ease your pain."_

_He watched Wesker reach for the mask he had thrown across the room. The mask that made the pain go away, dragging him back down into the black of his headspace where the whispering was strongest. It was like drowning. Like losing all sense of himself. It took ages to remember - even longer to care - and every time the mask went on, it took more time than before to accumulate the will to remove it. To remember. To care._

_Removing it brought back the hurt though. It felt good to wear it. It felt good to forget._

_'No, that's what he wants you to think!' a small, snarling, rioting voice said from somewhere - making his eyes go wide, darting to look at the approaching BOW._

_"No, no, no!" he whimpered through clenched teeth, unable to move from the pain. Unable to get away. He struggled, but Wesker merely rolled him gently onto his back, swatted away his weak arms and adjusted the mask to his face. Chris held his breath for as long as he could while the straps were fastened around his head again. Muzzling him. Filling his nose and mouth with the scent of Wesker's blood - the scent of kinship. It soothed him. Made him feel safe. Made the voices louder. Made him forget._

_The pain stopped._

"No!" Chris screamed, scuttling back into the corner of the hallway, eyes wide like an animal from the memory. He watched Wesker approach him, and as he did, he bunched his legs beneath himself and lunged forward. They struggled. Although their strength was nearly matched, Chris' panicked state left him disadvantaged. Unable to think straight, he threw wild and ill thought-out punches - exhausting himself as Wesker nimbly dodged him and countered with his own quick, well aimed attacks. Finally Chris delivered a fast, heavy kick only for his foot to be caught and his legs torn out from under him. He found himself on his back, waist pinned by strong thighs as a new, fresh mask appeared once again.

"I know, Christopher, I know," he said soothingly as he struggled to keep Chris down. His smile, however, was not soothing at all. It made the panic worse, tunnel-visioning his focus as he watched the mask come closer. "I'll ease your pain. It'll all go away soon."

"Don't! Don't!" Chris howled, face jerking left and right as the mask descended. He bucked his hips and twisted, but to no avail - and as the mask fell into place, he screamed. He struggled a moment longer, but then his struggling slowed until it stopped. Silence filled the hallway.

"Ssh, ssh, shh," Wesker said. "It'll all be over soon."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] As always, thank you guys for following and sending in support and leaving comments. Your comments and kinds words are truly the most inspirational things and they really make my day. I can't believe so many people are following this story, and it really just blows my mind that you've stuck with me so long. Thank you, as always, for your patience and I hope these chapters continue to entertain you. :)


	32. Bird Bones

When Sherry came to, she found herself in a hospital bed with a large, warm hand gently circling her wrist. The lights were out, the door closed. Nothing but the pale secondary lights to illuminate the room with. She jerked forward, body complaining angrily at the sudden movement as everything came at her in a rush - Chris, his dead eyes, the sound of bullets and infected screaming. Jake.

"Jake," she gasped, eyes wide as she twisted to look at the owner of the hand beside her. "Where is he?"

Her question tapered off into silence as her gaze traveled over the expanse of Leon's face; taking in the exhaustion, the tight grim line of his mouth, the dark circles under his paler than usual eyes. She felt moisture burn at the edges of her eyelids, hot and hurt. She shook her head.

"Don't you dare tell me that he's dead," she said, anger flaring at the whimper that threaded beneath her words. She wrinkled her nose and turned her hand to clutch his fiercely. "Don't tell me that he's…"

"He's here," Leon said, finally breaking his silence. His lips were cracked and painful. He looked pale and fragile sitting at her bedside; bandages thick around his shoulder and around his neck, bruises peeking out beneath their edges. Leon licked his lips, and the steadiness of his gaze made her uneasy. "He's alive… Back at the base, I woke up before you did. I sent two rescue units to extract Piers and Jake from the hanger bay while you were out. He's safe. He's here in the base. They both made it."

She waited for the 'but', it's presence heavy on his tongue and in the rigid posture of his body. The word 'don't' lingered on her lips, but before she could get it out, he continued.

"But something went wrong with his extraction," Leon said, and immediately Sherry felt the weight of dread pull her gaze down into her lap - hair hiding the moisture her eyes could not. "Jake took a bullet on the way out. According to Piers' report, Chris shot him while covering the barrel of his gun with his hand. Medical staff confirmed that he's infected, although it's with a viral strain we've never encountered before… He's been catatonic for the last eight hours. We've been feeding him intravenously, but from what they can tell, he's metabolizing himself faster than we can replenish him…"

Sherry had to wait until her throat was loose enough to speak.

"So what does that mean?"

Leon's throat clicked loudly in the dark silence of her room. "It means that unless something changes soon, he's not going to make it."

Sherry felt gratitude towards her longtime friend in that moment for the things he didn't say. Words like "wasting away".

"But Chris survived the transition."

"Medical has a few theories - one including that the virus is attacking the C-Virus cells already present in Jake's blood from when he infected himself in Edonia. No one's certain, just that his body isn't accepting the virus."

"How much longer does he have?"

"Day or two, maybe."

"There's nothing we can do?"

"I'm sorry, Sherry…" Leon said, his hand tightening around her own.

She didn't rush to him, though. She thought she would, be she didn't. She didn't rage, she didn't fight it. She just brought her aching knees up to her chest, tucked her face into the hollow she found there, and let the tears fall from her eyes. Leon didn't leave, but he didn't say anything either. He just kept his hand on her wrist and waited.

When she was composed enough to leave her room, she went to him. Leon led the way, his good arm crossed with hers as if leading her down the isle rather than through the dull, gloomy halls of the hidden BSAA medical ward. Lights flickered over head, their luminescence humming awkwardly as they passed. When they reached Jake's quarters, it felt like a punch to the gut when she realized it was quarantined.

"I already sent word ahead to let you in, Sherry," Leon said. "As far as we can tell, he's not actively contagious outside of blood to blood contact."

"But protocols," she whispered halfheartedly.

"Fuck'em," Leon said, guiding her toward the airlock. "You have better training than most of the people in those hazmat suits. I trust you. And as far as I'm concerned, the people on this team have lost enough. You deserve a goodbye."

They passed by silent scientists and medical staff, all of them parting around them like water as they entered Jake's room. He was in the middle of a row of beds, his body resting at an incline as he stared blankly at his hands; hands that were thin like bird bones, skin pulled tautly across them.

"I thought you said it had only been eight hours," Sherry gasped, air tight in her throat and choking her. Leon's hand tightened comfortingly around her forearm, like an anchor in a storm.

"I did."

She let go of Leon gently to go to Jake's bedside, her hands shaking as they reached for his limp fingers. His eyes were sunken and blank, his skin sallow and clammy where she touched him. She brushed back stray hair at his brow, trying to ignore the dry brittleness she felt there. There were bandages at his shoulder, but she could see that there was no wound beneath - healed no doubt during the hours before he began to metabolize himself. There were several empty IV bags littered across the hospital room, more than she could fathom one man could take. And yet still he sat here, his body as emaciated as if he were a prisoner of war.

"Jake," she said, her voice tight in her throat. She wound her hands into his and griped them tightly, hoping to incite some sort of reaction. "Please wake up."

Leon lingered like a ghost in the doorway, his presence grave but comforting at the corner of her eye. She kept her attention on Jake though; her hands petting his skin where she could reach him, her lips spilling words of nonsensical comfort and hope and promises, if only he'd come back.

"Please don't leave me," she said. She thought of all those tabloids and news stories where comatose victims suddenly returned from their sleep at the behest of their loved ones. And she felt furious as every second slid by without that miracle happening for them. Cheated of life and love. Cheated of him.

"No," she said fiercely, shoving him. "You don't get to do this, not after everything we went through. Not now. Not before we - "

"Sherry," Leon warned from the doorway, his body language no longer that of a passive bystander. She turned to look at Leon just as the airlock opened up behind him, and just as Piers walked forward - wrist and throat bandaged lightly. Piers gave Jake a wide-eyed stare, no doubt shocked by his appearance.

And Jake reacted for the first time in eight hours.

He looked up - eyes fixated on Piers with such blank intensity that it made the man freeze where he stood. Leon backed away from Piers, trying to confirm the source of attention for what it was.

"Is he… Is he responding?" Piers asked, and hesitantly raised one hand to wave at Jake. Seconds passed and Jake clumsily waved back.

"Holy shit."

Leon rushed to the intercom and pressed the button to communicate with the observation room. "Buddy, send some food to us - solid food, whatever you think he could take considering the starvation and his viral abilities. I think we've got one more test to run."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] I'm so, so sorry that this chapter is seriously TINY, but I've gotten a lot of great, wonderful and encouraging comments recently to update and I really wanted to get you guys something - I know it's been a while. Seriously, your comments and kind words always inspire me and I appreciate all of your support! I intend to have another update very soon, and it'll be longer than this! Unfortunately, the revelation was a great stopping point I couldn't resist. Our huge video project at work will be petering out soon and then I'll be at my prime for updating again! :D


	33. The Lesser Evil

He came back slowly, slower than he ever had before. It started with darkness - haze like a fog that calmed him, made everything feel so far away. Next came images, dull and washed out before his eyes. His lashes fluttered drunkenly against his cheek bones and the painful crease of skin depressed by the unforgiving material of his muzzle. Feeling. Sensation. Fingers - warm at the corners of his jaw line, probing. He leaned into them, the haze ebbing and flowing, making him lose concentration as cognition washed over him like the great waves of a tide. Ebbing and flowing.

"Christopher," a familiar voice said, tone as if admonishing a particularly stupid animal, "Why do you make this so hard on yourself?"

Chris grunted, compelled to let the presence know he was listening although he didn't quite understand the meaning of the words. He didn't want the voice to stop though. The voice matched the smell in his muzzle. The voice and the smell, they felt like home. Family.

Fingers pulled and tugged at the straps of his muzzle, agitating the already sensitive skin of his face after hours of being bound. With a final tug, the mask was free and pulled away. Fresh air hit his skin, and Chris sighed. After a few breaths, the haze in his mind began to dissipate. Shallow breaths became deeper and deeper as realization began to sink in.  _He had been muzzled_ , he thought as warm hands rubbed at the nearly healed tissue of the hand he had shot through back at the base. He had been muzzled, and everything had gone dark. He had been muzzled again. He had lost time again.

Chris jerked, pupils blowing wide as full cognition ran into him like a freight train. He shoved the man standing between his splayed legs and quickly slipped from the counter and into a fighter's crouch. The mask clattered hollowly to the ground and laid between them. Chris shot a terrified look at it, then at Wesker. The desire to smash it beneath his boot heel was great, but his fear of getting closer to Wesker was greater. He ignored the equally great desire to put it back on, skin shivering as he squashed the feeling down.

Wesker stumbled back, a look of displeasure and anger crossing his face before he carefully slipped the emotions back behind his calm, collected mask. He allowed Chris the space he had fought for, but remained close - hands splayed out as if trying to calm an unpredictable and unruly animal.

"Christopher," he started.

"No!" Chris said, breathing heavily through his nostrils - sweat beading frantically all along his skin. "No more. No more of  _that shit_ ," he exploded, thrusting a shaking finger in the direction of the muzzle. Even as he looked at it, his body thrummed in longing for it. Nothing hurt when he wore the mask. Nothing mattered. It was like morphine, and his body yearned for it. Realizing that made bile rise in the back of throat. "No more."

Wesker quirked a brow at him.

"I never wanted to use it, Christopher. I merely utilized it to assist with your healing. You're fine now," Wesker said. "It can be over, if you want it to be."

Chris flinched, eyes wide as he took in the other man's words. A choice - or what sounded like a choice, at least. It wasn't one, though. To choose to go without the mask would be to choose to go along with Wesker willingly. To choose to let go of his morals and beliefs, all just to be free. A pained noise lodged itself into Chris' throat as his mind raced through the possibilities, searching for a loop hole - a way out, anything. Icy blue eyes jerked up to meet with Wesker's the second the BOW took a step forward, silently encroaching upon his space.

"Stop," Chris growled.

"Stop what?" Wesker asked, head quirked, eyes assessing over the rims of his dark glasses.

" _Stop_ ," Chris said pointedly.

Wesker looked at him for a long moment, then leaned his hip back into the counter and crossed his arms, eyes taking in Chris' form with a level of calculation that made Chris shiver.

"Do you even know why you're fighting me anymore, Christopher?" He asked, body language completely at ease. Chris' body ached to mimic it. ' _His alpha was at ease, so why shouldn't he?_ ' a primal part of him thought. His mind immediately cringed when he realized what had subconsciously slipped into that sentence. Alpha. He sneered, as disgusted with himself as he was with Wesker.

"I'm fighting you, fighting  _this_ , because you're a genocidal megalomaniac with a god complex trying to eradicate more than three quarters of the world's population! Because you're a sadist and an asshole and a backstabber. Because you  _forced_ this upon me. Because you're fucking insane. I'm definitely not lacking reasons to fucking fight this."

"Shallow excuses with which to cling to the past," Wesker said, brushing them off with a swipe of his hand.

"You're damn right I'm clinging to the past," Chris said, a snarl thick in his throat despite all the instincts suddenly flooding his body, telling him to submit. Show his belly, beg for forgiveness. It only fueled his anger, bones shaking hollowly with fear and rage. "Let me spell it out for you - I. Didn't. Want. This."

And then Wesker was moving, chin high and shoulders tense as he backed Chris into the counter and invaded his hard won space. His face was scant inches from Chris' own, and the man's breath was hot and unpleasant against his skin. Wesker snarled, teeth bared, and Chris just barely stamped down upon the virus' immediate instinct to bare his throat in submission. His clenched jaw flinched violently, though, and that's all Wesker needed to see. He smiled wickedly, teeth pearly white in the dim light of the kitchen as he assessed the man caught between him and the counter.

"What do you want, Christopher?" Wesker said, and for the life of him Chris couldn't shake the calm vibes Wesker kept barraging at his mind through the link they shared. His mind told him he was safe. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself at the bar after work, sharing a beer with comrades. He shook his head fiercely, shedding the images from his mind and glared at Wesker - eyes so cold. Wesker just smiled and waited.

"I -" Chris started, then stilled as he reached for an answer and realized he didn't have one. What  _did_  he want? Chris took a shuddering breath through his nose and forced himself to keep eye contact with the man a mere hair's breadth from pressed against him.

"Well?"

Chris clenched his jaw and scowled, teeth grinding painfully.

"See, I know what you want, Christopher," Wesker said and chuckled, the sound soft like velvet. It burned.

"You don't know shit," Chris said weakly.

"Ah, but I do. I know you. I've known you for years. This link between us has been present since the day you accepted my blood, Christopher. I know what you dream about. What you think you can't have. A little house in the middle of nowhere with a deck to lay on, a patch of sunlight on your skin, and a cold beer in your hand. Somewhere to grow old and enjoy your days in a patch of sun like an old dog gone out to pasture."

And as Wesker said it, Chris felt a cold shard growing in his chest as he realized it was true. He wanted to give up. Give the fight to someone else and sleep for a long, long time. It was a shameful wish. How many friends had died to give him the chance to keep fighting? How many people had believed in him? Why should he get to go out to pasture? Why should he get to live? Chris looked away, unable to hold Wesker's gaze. Icy dread spread through his blood as he wondered how long Wesker had been prying into his thoughts all these years and he never knew. Never.

"What you want, Christopher, is a way out. Right now you know how the story ends for you if you don't help me. Say you escape and return to your friends. Say you, by some chance, best me. You'll live the rest of your days fighting a war that can't be won, because the war does not end with me. Oh no. No matter how many good men and women you train, there will never be enough. Cut off one head, and another will appear. And another," Wesker said, leaning closer, "And another, and another. Your fight is a doomed one. There is no such thing as peace, only lesser evils."

Chris' eyes slid to the mask that laid on the floor behind Wesker. He could see the dark blood that clotted the internal webbing of the thing from here and from deep inside, he felt such longing for it. The same longing he had felt in Edonia, fingers aching for bottle after bottle after bottle. At Wesker's disgusted chuckle, he knew the man had caught on and forced his gaze to meet the BOW's once more.

"What's your point?"

"My point, Christopher, is this - out of all the years you've fought, I am the only person who has ever offered you a real chance to fight for peace. A real peace. An obtainable peace. No more bioterrorism. No more plague or illness or cancer. No more overpopulation. Imagine it, Christopher," Wesker said, voice oddly beseeching, and Chris nearly flinched when he realized that Wesker was genuine in his words - this is what the man  _truly_ believed. That through death, there would be light at the end of the tunnel. "Fight for me and I will give you that house in the middle of nowhere. Fight for  _my peace_ , and you can spend the rest of your days on that porch swing like you want to."

"You could do this without me," he said, eyes searching as he tried to figure out Wesker's angle.

Wesker straightened, face oddly pleased with the turn in their conversation.

"I could," he agreed, "But I chose not to."

"Why?"

Wesker smiled wryly and stepped away. Chris stiffened as he watched the BOW pick up the mask, only to immediate relax as he watched Wesker open up the little trashcan beside him and throw it away. Surprise must have been evident on Chris' face, because Wesker only laughed - that haughty, sneering little laugh that made Chris so fucking angry. Rage flushed his skin raw, burning in his blood.

"You already know, Christopher. Perhaps you should take a moment to reconsider what you think to be true, and then come and find me," Wesker said, arms at his sides in a gesture of peace as he began to walk out of the room.

"What about your son?" Chris asked, confused as he realized that there would be no punishment. "I -"

"Infected my son and made him part of the family," Wesker said, pausing in the doorway to answer him, "As I knew you would in your feeble attempts to betray me. He is no longer viable to bridge the genetic gap in my formula."

"So it's over," Chris said, shoulders falling - a small bubble of hope growing in his chest.

"No," Wesker said, eyes vividly red and unreadable where they peaked at him from over his glasses. "It merely means that even more people will die than I originally calculated and the fault will not be mine. It will be yours. I figured that knowledge would be punishment enough."

And then he was gone. Chris stared after him for a long moment - shame and guilt flooding his body so strongly that he couldn't figure out if it was the virus and Wesker's bond forcing those feelings through his veins, or if he truly felt them. He slammed his injured hand through a cupboard door and tore it off its hinges, sending plates flying across the room. He screamed, his voice hoarse and painfully ragged as he then slammed his boot through the dry wall.

He knew the fault was not his, not truly, but even as his rage calmed and he slid down to the floor - head in hands - he couldn't quite shake the nagging little voice in his head that kept whispering:

_Even more will die, and that blood will be on your hands, Christopher. Not mine._

God, he just wanted to die.

* * *

A day later, and Jake had stabilized. Leon stood in the observation room and watched through the one-sided mirror as Piers sat with Jake, monitoring the man as he obediently ate from bowl after bowl of high-calorie solid food.

"I gotta admit, Buddy, I've seen some weird shit, but watching those two sit peacefully in the same room has got to be one of the weirdest," Leon said, arms crossed as he turned to look at his friend beside him. Buddy looked up at him from his wheelchair and shrugged. "I mean,  _you_  don't know it - but those two aren't exactly friends."

"For as much damage and destruction they cause, viruses do one hell of a job of creating bonds between hosts," Buddy said. He rubbed at the dark circles beneath his eyes and Leon turned his back to the room before them in order to give the man his full attention.

"When was the last time you rested, man?"

"I could ask the same of you," Buddy said pointedly.

"Yea, but you're our guest," Leon said slyly. "Can't have you collapsing during your visit. I mean, what would the Eastern Slav Republic say if they found out?"

Buddy snorted and brushed his dark hair from his eyes.

"Nothing, I imagine. Do not worry about me, my friend. I will be fine," Buddy said, then returned his attention to the vitals currently displayed on his tablet, "As will Mr. Muller, it would appear."

"The kid's gonna pull through?"

Buddy nodded, eyes flicking up to look at the duo currently sitting in the hospital room.

"Ever since Agent Nivans' appearance, he has become responsive to care - and just in time. It was looking very bleak for a while there."

"Any explanation on why Piers had such an effect on him?" Leon asked.

"My guess would be that on some level, the virus inside of Jake recognizes whatever strain Piers is infected with as kin, or the next closest thing to it. This gives us a good look at what we can expect from Wesker's intended outbreak, if it's anything like this. Whatever he's cooked up, it operates on a power structure, that's for sure. A chain of command, if you will."

"So can we assume that Chris went through this as well?" Leon asked.

"Ah yes, your kidnapped comrade, right?" Buddy asked, and at Leon's nod, he continued. "Yes, it is more than likely safe to assume that what we are witnessing now is exactly what Captain Redfield went through. The only differing factor I can see here is that Mr. Muller is being "raised", if you will, by a host of another virus whereas the captain was more than likely "raised" by his infector."

"What does that mean?"

"The bond between Chris and his infector - or superior in line, if you will - is likely quite strong. Based off the power structure, we can assume that some component of Las Plagas may have been used or at least inspired this virus - and you know just as well as I do the significance of being near your infector during incubation."

Leon shuddered, memories of that alien will surging through his body at Saddler's whim, rising in him like a great tide that he couldn't control. It wasn't as hard to fight off when he was on the other bloody side of the island, but the closer he got to his would-be master, the more he lost; like rope sliding through his fingers. Without Luis' pills or especially the machine, he never would have made it.

"So you're saying that Chris is likely a lost cause," Leon said, concern masked beneath the flat calm of his voice.

"What I'm saying is that it's possible," Buddy said sympathetically, face twisted no doubt from his own memories of his time while infected. "Between them the two of them, Jake has a much better look at rehabilitation than Captain Redfield does. This is all, of course, purely theoretical; based only off a few hours of observation and assumptions, nothing more."

Leon felt his fingers clench around his biceps and thought of Claire. He stared out at nothing as he considered how mad she would be about being left in the dark for so long. Her rage, when she found out Chris was not only infected, but currently in the hands of his greatest enemy. He was so lost in thought, in fact, that he nearly flinched when a hand landed firmly on his elbow, warm and heavy. Buddy's hand.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Buddy said.

"Yea," he said. "Me too."

"How are your wounds doing?"

"Nearly healed."

"So quick," Buddy teased.

"Alright mister 'I-survived-a-bullet-to-my-back'," Leon shot back wryly as he moved to enter the hospital room.

"Oh, low blow, American," Buddy laughed and returned to studying his tablet.

The moment he opened the door, Piers spun around to look at him - eyes wide. He relaxed almost immediately, a look of relief passing over him.

"Are we switching out?" Piers asked.

"Sorry, kid," Leon said as he dragged a chair over to where Piers sat and plopped down in it. "So far, he only eats for you. I'm afraid you're stuck here."

"I'm dying," Piers whined, melting into his chair like a small child. "I've been here for hours."

"You remember what he did when you left just to go to the bathroom," Leon said, pointing at the door on the other side of the room that was currently broken in half, " _That_   _bathroom_ , not even far away."

Piers snorted. "How was I supposed to know he would do that. Ever have someone break down your door when you're taking a piss? Fucking terrifying," he muttered, suppressing a shudder at the memory of Jake's sudden and unexpected strength - eyes frenzied and searching like a dog that had lost track of it's person. Fingers bleeding, blood splattered across the broken shards of the door.

"You're stuck with him until he snaps out of this," Leon said. "You need anything?"

Piers' stomach growled. He covered it with one hand and looked over at his friend. "A sandwich would be amazing."

"I'll get you one," Leon said, standing.

"Hey, where's Sherry by the way? I figured she wouldn't leave his side, knowing them."

"Mandatory bed rest," Leon said, eyes on Jake as the ex-mercenary turned science experiment shoveled spoonful after spoonful of broth into his face. "It's better this way, at least for now."

"Huh."

"Keep him eating," Leon said as he turned to leave. "Looks like he's finally getting some meat back on his bones."

"Hey Leon," Piers said, stopping the man halfway across the room.

"Yea."

"If… If this is what the virus does... When Wesker exposes people to this worldwide…" He paused, hands squeezing his knees as if trying to brace himself. "I mean, it's taken a crazy amount of food to keep Jake going. What will happen when there are hundreds of people in this state?"

Leon looked at Jake and considered how he was just a few hours ago - starving and too catatonic to feed himself. Leon grimaced and didn't know what idea was worse; hundreds of people just sitting and staring at nothing, slowly wasting away, or the idea of them taking matters into their own hands and just eating whoever died in the conversion. He forced away a shudder and gave Piers a quick look.

"I don't know."

"He'll come for him, you know," Piers said. "Wesker."

Leon nodded, eyes far away before locking with Piers' mismatched gaze.

"I'm counting on it," he said. "I'll be back with your sandwich. Sit tight."

Piers snorted, and turned back around in his chair to keep watch of his charge.

"Where else am I gonna go?"


	34. Saying Goodbye

Leon brought Piers a sturdy meal comprising of a thick sandwich, chips and a large bottle of water. He found the men much the way he had left them – with Piers watching in absolute boredom as Jake shoveled down food like his stomach was bottomless. Not once since they started feeding the kid had he shown any signs of filling or discomfort. It was as if his body was literally digesting and metabolizing the food mere minutes after ingestion. Although silly, Leon couldn't help but feel a little flicker of jealousy as he thought of how old age was slowly stripping him of his youth. He had by no means lost his boyish figure – but keeping it was not as easy as it had once been. He missed cheeseburgers fiercely.

He did not linger with the infected duo for long. He had, however, brought Piers a book and an iPad to help him pass time. The gratitude that had been on the kid's face had not gone unnoticed. When he left the hospital room, he found himself at Buddy's side once more.

"I will watch them," Buddy said, more attuned to him than any other man or woman Leon had worked with in the past. Leon gave him a knowing look, his mouth a firm and unamused line across his face.

"Stop that," he said.

"If that I could, my friend. Go. Speak with the woman you once called friend," he said as he turned in his chair to face the men in the room before them. "Perhaps you will call her friend again."

"Would you?"

Buddy took his time thinking about it, and Leon allowed him to do so – but he saw it the moment something ugly passed across the man's mind. It marred his face visibly.

"I cannot say that I would… But I know someone who would. Who did," he said. "He was a better man for it."

Leon nodded his head respectfully, unwilling to say the words that both men were thinking.  _A better man, yes; but also a dead one._

* * *

He had to go pretty deep into the facility in order to find her, but when he did, no one stopped him from entering. The BSAA soldiers standing guard at her door merely nodded to him respectfully before making room for him to enter through the airlock. The room was modest and the lights were dim. No objects were left in the quarters that could not be bolted down, aside from the sheets and padding with which she laid upon. They had taken her off the IV a day ago. She was healing, albeit slowly; and all the while, she had been more than cooperative.

She looked up at him as he entered, her eyes pale and nonaggressive from her place on the bed. The right side of her face was purpled with mottled bruises, and a deep cut split the lush dip of her lower lip. Her other injuries he had been assured were many – some old, from the mansion. Some new, like the bullet wound in her leg.

He wanted to ask her how she was feeling. It felt like the right thing to do. "He didn't kill you," he said instead. She did not flinch. In fact, she barely moved at all.

"No," she said simply. "He didn't."

"Why?"

"Because he is Chris Redfield," Jill said as if she were stating something obvious, like the color of the sea.

"He doesn't have a lot of choices going for him these days, Jill. Hell, he infected Jake."

"I have done the similar things, when I was in his position. Some of those things I did to him. It did not mean that I wanted to. I could not kill him any more than he could kill me."

Leon considered this for a long moment as he stared at her from the foot of her bed. Then, with a sigh, he grabbed a chair from the wall behind him and slowly dragged it to his once-called friend's side. He sat down with a weariness that belied his spryness and brushed his hair from his face. He did not put up any fronts. If he owed her anything, it was honesty and bluntness – and to be truthful, he didn't really have the energy to conjure anything else.

"It's not good, Jill. The BSAA wants blood."

"I do not blame them," she said. "I would, too."

He searched her face for something. Fear, anger – he wasn't sure. But he found neither.

"I don't know if I can help you."

"I know," she said. "It's okay. I will answer your questions anyway."

He considered that for a moment, and then:

"How much do you know?"

"Enough."

Leon thought about what to ask first, but instead a thousand questions beat at his mind all at once. His temple throbbed, and before he could stop himself he scowled and put his faith in a once-upon-a-time friend as if nothing had changed.

"I have a lot of questions, but we don't have a lot of time… What do I need to know?"

Jill smiled bitterly at the small gesture of good faith and shook her head very lightly. "I can see why she picked you," she said, but before he could ask who, Jill continued. "Have you opened your book?"

And just like that, Leon felt his mood shift from tolerant to downright furious. He had a small moment to think to himself that his mood was as unpredictable as it was avoidable lately before he found himself out of his chair and crowding Jill's space – one fist slapping with grave finality against the headboard just behind her.

Words snarled to be loose from his throat.  _Don't talk about what you don't know,_ first and foremost; but what came out instead was, "How did you know about that?"

Jill did not flinch when he crowded her space, nor did she react when he bared his teeth in her direction. She just watched him with cold, blue eyes and said, "Because she told me."

Leon blinked, his rage abating beneath a tide of questions and confusion. "What?"

"There's a lot that you don't know, and even more that you don't understand, Leon. Please sit down. This will take some time."

He glared at her for good measure, but when she merely met his gaze with casual patience, he forced himself away and back into his chair. When he was finally seated, he gestured at himself and waited for her story.

"I don't know if they've told you, but the doctors they sent to tend to me confirmed that Piers' attack back in the mansion fried the nano-technology that Wesker had been using to control me. A convenient story, I'll admit – but it is the truth, for whatever it's worth. However, I would be lying if I said I have not at least once had free will during my time with Wesker." And when Leon squinted at her critically, she merely held up a hand and said, "Not because I chose to help him. Because Ada Wong found a way to utilize the small window of time during the time that the nano-technology needed to reboot to maintain repairs and updates. It was then that she would open up a direct link to my comms-system and speak with me. She knew about Wesker's plans before anyone else did, and she tried to help me before anyone else did. The bullet she shot Chris with? It was meant for Wesker. If it hadn't been for Chris' unpredictable instinct to protect him, maybe we wouldn't be here at all."

"What do you mean?"

"The bullet she had designed, it was a hollow bullet filled with a specially made acid, just for this mission. Her theory was that if the acid was introduced to something vital, such as the brain, spine or heart – that its degenerative qualities would tax Wesker's body long enough for someone to deliver a killing blow. With his body so consumed in healing a rapidly worsening wound, it would not be able to stave off an attack, let alone heal both. After that, destroy the rest of the cells. No Wesker, no end of the world – for now, at least."

"But Chris didn't die," Leon pointed out.

"He nearly did, actually. He's young in his…new state of being. By contrast to Wesker's abilities, he's still just an adolescent – and that's with years of having the necessary blood pathogens in his blood for years prior. If the bullet had struck his spine instead of his shoulder, Chris might not have pulled through. Wesker was pretty unsettled by it. If not for Wesker's nearness to stimulate the virus into catatonic state of healing, he would have died."

Leon licked his dry lips, cracked from stress and neglect. He rolled Jill's words over in his head before he looked at her, eyes keen and unapologetic.

"This bullet, is there another?"

"There is. That's why I asked about your book. She left you a drive, Leon," she said, and suddenly her body language shifted from professional to sympathetic as she reached one hand out to brush very, very lightly against his knee. "She left you everything you'll need… For what it's worth, I'm sorry... It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I didn't…"

"You didn't what?"

"I didn't think that Chris was so far gone," she said plainly, and it was obvious from the whisper softness of her voice and the blankness of her face that were there time to grieve, she'd likely do so. She swallowed thickly, and then said, "I'll answer any questions that you have, but you should watch what she left you first. Come back to me, when you're ready."

With a small pause and a nod, Leon stood and left.

* * *

Leon did not tell anyone about what Jill had said. Instead, he went straight to his room and locked the door. The book was still wrapped pristinely in the brown paper Ada had so carefully wrapped it in. His fingers brushed across the grainy soft quality of its sides before easing a nail beneath one of its edges and delicately removing it from its trappings. The book's cover was unchanged – as cheesy as it was unremarkable. On its cover was the image of a sleek man in a  _James Bond_  style suit, gun in one hand and gorgeous young lady in the other. Despite his general look of cockiness, he appeared to be unaware that her large doe eyes were distracting him from the switchblade she held hesitantly behind his back. It promised to be nothing but Grade-A horrible, cheesy romance novel trash.

He had picked it up on a whim while flying undercover to a mark in Italy. The flight was as long as it was boring, so he had spent a few extra bucks knowing that the book would be equal parts amusingly ironic as it was mind numbing. And that's when he had found Ada, also sitting in first class. He knew her for who she was immediately, and she him – but both maintained their cover under the guise of good fun. She was ( _amusingly_ ) a journalist going out to cover some grand political event being held in Rome, and  _he_ was a professor attending an international seminar about an unfortunately familiar bit of flora that the American government wanted gone just as much as he did; all involving a seemingly innocent flower.

"A professor," she had said, eyebrows raised over her glass of whiskey, "Reading  _that?_  I do believe your university or whatever school you hail from would fire you on the spot, if they knew."

"Well, I guess I better hope you can keep a secret, shouldn't I?" He had said, all while smiling cheekily over the dog eared pages of his cheap book.

"Yes," she smiled back, "I suppose you should."

They had talked about their fake lives with a merriment he had long gone without, and when the flight was over, they went their separate ways. He should report her, he knew – but after everything that had happened in Raccoon City and in Spain, he just couldn't. So he left the plane and went to his hotel feeling as light as he did guilty, and it wasn't until he sat down to pass an hour before he could meet with his informant that he realized that not only was his book gone,  _it was stolen_. And in its place was a drinking napkin and a fine set of lip stain.

Thus their game had started. They made a habit of running into each other if they could manage it – each taking great fun in their newest cover, all the while attempting to steal back the book. They'd pass each other harmless notes; their words more akin to a teenage affair than to that of spies. What went in the book was strictly between their fake and passing personalities, and during these brief interludes, never did they entertain the idea of their true duties. He left her pressed flowers from his travels. She left him cards of her perfume and other odd eccentricities. But what started as a game slowly evolved, as all things do. Fleeting conversations on planes turned to "what a coincidence, I am booked in this hotel as well". They took their time in reading the book, neither quite ready for it to end. She had stolen it from him on a trip to Venice when he was just two chapters from its end. He hadn't seen it since, until now.

And today would be the last day they exchanged their gifts and time together. He had won; the book was his. The victory was heavy and hollow in his chest. With quaking fingers, he opened the front of the book to reveal a note in Ada's neat, beautiful scrawl.

 _Hello Leon,_ it began, and he couldn't quite manage to calm the tremor from his hand as he read it.  _If you're reading this, then I'm sorry. I cut up our book in order to deliver this to you, but I left the last two chapters alone. Watch what's on the thumb drive. And maybe one day, when this is all over – finish reading our book. It's surprisingly worth it._

_Love, the lady from the plane_

He pressed the note to his nose before he could stop himself and inhaled the perfume he knew she would have left for him. It smelled of the cheap book and dusty pages,  _but it also smelled of her._  Beneath the closed lids of his eyes, he could remember the way her silky skin felt beneath his callused fingers and the beautiful contrast her lacey black bra had been against her supple, pale breasts. He remembered what it felt like to have her beneath him in his sheets, the few times they had managed to create cover identities that happened to be staying in the same hotel. And the memory that finally drove the breath from his lungs was the memory of the one time she had stayed in bed with him until morning.

The sunlight passing through the cheap hotel window of that little place in Venice. The sound of vendors leaking in through the old panes of their windows and the smell of fresh bread from the market below. Her hair, soft and spread along his chest. Her hand, slack and peaceful where she tucked it beneath his ribs and the curve of her chin. Her breath whispering softly across his skin. His fingers in her hair, and the beautiful way in which she woke – slowly, as though there was all the time in the world – and then all at once as she curved her neck to kiss him. Her words were softened by sleep and something else when she murmured "good morning" against his lips. She had smiled then, and so had he; and it had not been the first time, but the last time that he had considered running away with her if only so he could have that feeling of waking with her every day for the rest of his life. But then she had disappeared. It was not until China that he saw her again, and by then he knew it was too late. The game was over.

It could only ever end in pain.

He allowed himself time, not because he had it, but because life was too short and already too painful to go another minute depriving himself of mourning. He set down the book because if he didn't, he would not be able to protect his last keepsake of her from curling in the crushing grief of his hands. No sooner was it safe on the desk did he curl in on himself; hands deep and ruthless in his hair as he cried. Teeth bared as though his jaw alone could contain the sound of his mourning, but unable to avoid the unpleasant pull of his lips back and away from his teeth. His tears were as hot as they were wet, and they found their way from his eyes to his tongue with a speed and volume that made the anguish worse. His shoulders shivered, his body quaked, and for the first time since he watched her die, he allowed himself to mourn what he had lost and the woman that he had woke up with in that bed in Venice all those years ago.

When his mourning was done, he did not feel better. He felt hollowed out as if someone had scooped out everything that he was and left him nothing but the knowledge that where he was once full, he was now scraped clean and empty. He wiped the salt from his face with the back of one hand, then the other, before opening the book once more and pulling out the innocent thumb drive from the small concealed box in the box that Ada had created by cutting out its middle.

He did not wonder if it was corrupted. If Ada's last wish was to plague Leon's computer with a virus, then so be it – Leon did not have the energy to care. Instead, he just opened up his laptop and inserted the drive as if it wouldn't be the last message he would ever hear from the woman who had, despite her many flaws, died trying to save the world.

When the video popped up, he did not hesitate to press play. Immediately, Ada appeared on the screen. She was in a hotel room, and briefly he wondered if it was one that they had shared before or not, but quickly crushed the thought before it could consume him. Setting his jaw against the pain, he watched as Ada stared into the camera for a long time, just as calm as she had been in her recording at the mansion. She watched the lens as if she were watching him, and just when he was beginning to wonder whether or not she would speak at all, she said, "Hey there, good looking," with a softness he had only ever heard her speak with once before. It was not flirtatious, nor was it smug. It did not fit Ada Wong, the spy – but it did fit the woman with whom he had once shared a bed. It fit the woman that he had lost, and from her tone, she had lost something too.

"Knowing you, I'm sure you have a lot of questions. And of them, I'm sure the one that hurts the most is: why didn't I come to you for help? Since this message will only play if I'm dead, I guess there's no harm in being honest with you… I wanted to, Leon. I actually went to your apartment just before I got in contact with Jill. I came in through the window and despite all your training, I found you sleeping. I could have killed you, and you never would have known." She paused. "I saw you there, and I wanted to wake you, but I couldn't. I was about to, but then I saw the picture on your dresser..."

Ada paused again to wet her lips and collect herself. In all the time he had known her, he had never seen her like this – open and vulnerable. Her eyes looked a little bit puffy, all of a sudden. But despite all this, she did not appear to be mad; only resigned.

"I don't know what I was expecting. You and I don't have any photos, and with the way I just disappeared after Venice… I mean, that's what I had wanted; for you to move on. But it didn't really sink in until I saw the picture. It was you and Claire at the park… You looked so happy with your arm around her. And I realized then and there that despite whatever life you had built for yourself – if I woke you up, you would follow me to the ends of the earth and all I could offer in return was death. I've known since that morning in Italy what you've wanted, Leon. A home, a family – someone to grow old with. You can't have those things with me. You know it and I know it," she said as she held up their book. "So I'm giving this back to you. This and Plan B. I'll never be able to settle down with you, it's just not who I am – I can't give you that… but I can help make the sort of world where you'll finally get the chance to have it. In this drive, you'll find everything you need to know about Plan B. Jill can explain everything else. If you haven't saved her from that mad man, yet, do it. If you have, trust her. She can help."

Her words slowed to silence as her hands curled gently around the book. She looked away. Her long, pale throat contracted just slightly, and when she finally spoke again, her words were soft and thick in her throat. All the while, she kept her gaze away from the camera.

"To answer the question you asked me back then…that morning, back in Venice…" When her gaze returned to the camera, it was wet with loss, but moreso an odd, glowing sense of peace. "I do love you, Leon. I always will." She smiled weakly, and a tear slid down the pale cream of her face. It would be the first and last time he ever saw her cry. "That's why I have to let you go."

She wiped her tear away with a trembling hand and teased, "Now go get'em, tiger."

And then the screen went black.

In its sudden reflection, Leon could see every last thing in his life that bioterrorism had stolen from him written in the weariness of his face. He bowed his head down into his hands, and it was a long time before he was able to force himself to look at all the documents and plans that Ada had left behind.

It was even longer before he would understand them.


	35. Plan B

When Leon returned to Jill's room, she did not need to ask to know that he had watched Ada's message. She could see it in the puffy texture of his face and the dark circles that marred the thin skin beneath his eyes. He looked like the hollow ghost of a man she had once known, and the small part of her heart that still beat inside her chest -  _that was still her's_ \- cramped painfully as she realized just how many friends had fallen to this point. Broken. Hollow. She thought of them smiling around a smoky poker table, cards in hand and some articles of clothing missing. She thought of them - Claire, Leon, Barry, Chris… they had been so young, even after Wesker's betrayal. They still knew how to live, back then.

Not like now, she considered as she took in the man that stood at her bedside.

Not like now.

"I'm sorry, Leon," she said, but the words were hollow from repetition and too many funerals. She winced, fully aware of the insensitive tone, but he held up one hand and shook his head; too tired and too similar to hold her voice against her.

He didn't, however, say that it was alright. They were beyond lying now, those of them who still remained. He reclaimed the chair he had sat in not even a few short hours ago and swept his unusually grimy bangs from his face with a distasteful look.

"I watched the videos," he said, rubbing his hands from thighs to knees and back again. "Plan B… will it work?"

"No. Not by itself. Not anymore," Jill said honestly. "The theory had been that it would kill Wesker, but it didn't manage to kill Chris and he's younger."

"What do you mean, he's younger?"

Jill licked her lips, and instantly Leon leaned to the side to pull a water bottle from the bag he had brought with him. He uncapped it and held it to her. They both tried to ignore the way her hand shook when she took it. She sipped from it slowly, cautious not to trouble her stomach.

"I can only tell you what I've heard. Wesker was never one for explaining. From what I gathered, Chris has been infected for a lot longer than the day we took him in DC. Even so, his virus - whatever it is that's running through his body - it's younger than Wesker's own variation. So he's younger than Wesker. Weaker. Think of him like a little brother by comparison. He was old enough to survive the hit, but just barely. If it had been Wesker and if the bullet had hit him in a non-critical area like it had for Chris, he very likely would have survived as well."

"Then why did you want me to watch her videos?" Leon asked, too tired to care about the hope Jill's news had so quickly dashed out.

"Because you deserved to hear her final words," Jill said simply, "And she had asked me to make sure you heard them."

Leon bowed forward in his chair, braced his elbows against his knees and locked his eyes on his hands. She let him process everything in peace, her silence patient. When finally he raised his gaze to her, she knew what he would say.

"There must be something we can do."

"There is, maybe," she said. "Ada and I… discussed it, once. We didn't agree about it, though."

"About if it would succeed or not?"

"No. About if it was right."

Leon's brows rose. "So it  _would_ work then?"

"Theoretically. It was the best plan we came up with."

Leon straightened in his chair and clenched his fingers tightly into his knees. He watched her with keen eyes, stopped himself from asking the obvious and instead said, "There's a catch."

Jill's lips quirked upward ever so lightly, ever so dryly. She nodded.

"There always is."

"I don't understand… Why not just leave me information about that plan? Why tell me about Plan B at all?"

"Because Plan B is part of it," Jill said. "Leon, how much does the BSAA know about Wesker's virus?"

Leon scrubbed one hand through his hair and huffed. "Barely anything. We're only just now studying Jake. That's about as far as we are."

"What have you guys learned?"

Leon narrowed his eyes at her, trying to follow what she was getting at.

"Only that the virus functions similarly to Las Plagas. It operates off a telecommunicative power structure. Since Jake is following Piers around like a lost puppy, we're assuming that any infected individual seen as more powerful than itself is pretty much seen as some sort of kin."

Jill nodded.

"Wesker has been able to very loosely control lower variations of C-Virus victims because of that. Be careful with Jake and Piers though. Jake will follow Piers now while he's weak, but once he gains strength… The difference between Wesker's virus and all the others is like the difference between humans and monkeys. We acknowledge that they're similar, but we don't hold them equal in any respect at all - neither do they. Once he's old enough, he won't see Piers like kin anymore. Not like that."

"So Wesker's at the top of this hierarchy then?"

"Yes," Jill said. "And right now, Chris is his second in command. The "heir to the throne", if you will."

Leon blinked.

"He wants Chris to replace him?"

Jill laughed honestly. "No! No, no - from the way he talked about Chris and the way he acted around Chris, he viewed him more like a particularly loyal and dumb dog. He took comfort from his presence, but he was sure to make sure Chris knew his place was at Wesker's feet."

"Then why…?"

"Think of pack dynamics, Leon. Whenever there's an alpha, there's always another ready to take its place. It's nature."

"Wesker wouldn't develop a virus that could potentially kick him from the top," Leon said.

"You're right. He made it so that the virus only would adapt with people with very specific blood pathogens – pathogens from his own blood that would need years to develop. Think of it like wine. The longer the pathogens age before the host's infection, the stronger the host. Chris was infected years before Wesker introduced him to the virus. Because of that, he's the only threat Wesker has. It's why Wesker has been so meticulous about keeping Chris near him during his transformation - he's trying to create a bond so that Chris won't be able to challenge him."

"What about Jake? I mean, he's his son. He's had the pathogens from birth, right?"

"Yes, he has - but they're weaker because of his mother. He's… in-between. Or at least he was. It's why Wesker was using his blood to make that fake "cure". It was going to help ease people into being able to accept the virus while also diminishing the likelihood that they'd be able to become even remotely as strong as Wesker himself. Chris was the only soldier he intended to have with strength like his own. Jake will be strong; stronger than normal people who might accept the virus. But he won't be like them."

Something clicked in Leon's face. He clenched his hands.

"You want Chris to challenge Wesker."

Jill looked away.

"We knew that even if the bullet worked, we'd need someone strong enough to fight Wesker while the acid worked away at him," Jill said and let that sink in, watching Leon connect the dots. "No human or enhanced person with a virus less than Wesker's could survive a fight long enough to do the job, even with Wesker weakened. And Chris proved that the bullet by itself wouldn't be enough. We need someone who can hold their own against him long enough to destroy him. I've seen them fight. Even as young as he is, Chris is powerful. He's our best shot at killing Wesker. If we shoot Wesker while Chris is fighting him, he'll have a decent shot at overpowering his master."

Leon stiffened.

"You saw him, Jill," Leon said, voice low. "Hell, you  _worked_ with him on that last operation. He's  _gone_. How the hell do you expect him to fight Wesker when he's obeying every order the bastard gives?"

Something cold passed across Jill's face and Leon resisted a shudder. He watched as she closed herself down and lifted her eyes to meet his.

"That's the problem... Chris has to be far enough along in his transformation to be strong enough to take Wesker on, but he can't be so far gone that he isn't fighting back against Wesker's control anymore. If we wait much longer, Wesker will complete the bond he's been nurturing and he'll have Chris' loyalty."

"Sounds like this is pretty time sensitive… Why didn't you try this plan at the manor?"

"He was too young."

"How do you know all of this?" Leon finally asked.

Jill chuckled mirthlessly.

"Wesker is as intelligent as he is egotistical. He thought of me as nothing more than a blank doll. I was a great wall for him to praise himself to. And I always listened… It was the last thing I could choose to do for myself. He never went into too much depth, just snippets here and there, but I listened."

Leon moved his hand as if to grasp her's, but then he thought better of it. Instead, he pulled out his phone.

"I think you should talk to our lead researcher on the virus so far. I think between the two of you, we could pin a lot more information down," Leon said as he brought up Buddy's number and sent him a quick " _Get over to 604C,"_ before tucking his phone away. "Jill… If Chris wins, would he… would he come back?"

"He'd no longer have anyone influencing his mind, so it's possible," she said. "It would depend on the damage done to him…mentally."

"And if he doesn't?" Leon asked.

Jill swallowed and finally looked away.

"Then we kill him, too."

Leon's eyes widened minutely, but he didn't let the expression linger. Instead, he stood with a brief nod of understanding and walked to the door. Just as he was about to walk out, however, he paused – his back to Jill as he considered her from over his shoulder.

"Before I go, I have one more question."

"Yes?"

"You said that you and Ada didn't agree about using Chris against Wesker… why?"

When she didn't respond immediately, Leon turned slightly to look at her better. She seemed so small in her bed all of a sudden. Her pale body wrapped in cords and monitors, her eyes dull and sunken.

"Because," she said softly, "If we go through with it, he can never be human again. And after all these years, after everything he's fought for… I just couldn't do that to him. Not if there was another way."

Leon considered her words for what they were, but he nodded to her one last time and said, "Get some rest, Jill."

And then he left.

* * *

Chris found Jill's room by accident. He had been heading to the training floor in an effort to tire himself out and work through the new feelings and thoughts Wesker had managed to plant into his brain when he caught a scent he hadn't smelled in months, even after Jill had returned from Africa. It was the smell of lavender and gun oil. A smell that uniquely breathed  _Jill_ into his mind. But in the weeks that he had been with her here in Wesker's bunker, he had never smelled it on her. Not once.

So he followed the scent because he had nothing else to do. It brought him to her rooms, just as bland and simple as his own. There was a small cot to one side, a dresser, and a bathroom. To the naked eye, there was nothing special about it – but there was a feeling that the smell had ignited in him that he just couldn't shake. A memory of who Jill had been. His Jill… It smelled like her favorite shampoo, but the only shampoo he found in her bathroom was simple and without fragrance. And yet, the scent persisted – niggling at the back of his head like a forgotten word on the tip of one's tongue.

He stopped trying to rationalize where it could be and simply followed it, eyes closed and nose to the wind. It led him to her bed and under it, beneath the small gap that the bed and floor afforded. He lowered himself flat to the floor and found himself face to face with a plain shoebox. He held his breath and forced himself to stop, to throw his awareness inwards and check on the thick mental chain that tethered him to Wesker. The man was… researching in his lab. He didn't pry too heavily; he didn't want to catch the man's attention. All he needed to know was that his Alpha wasn't looking  _his_ way, and with the knowledge that he was safe – at least for the moment – he reached beneath the bed and withdrew the small, ordinary shoebox that smelled so richly of his past.

Once he had it in his hands, he drew himself up and rested his back against the side of the bed, his legs splayed out before him. He traced the edges of the cardboard box tentatively and wondered what Jill might have left behind. How much creative liberty did she have at the end of Wesker's leash, he wondered. Was it something completely ordinary? And if it was… why did it smell like lavender? He lifted the top slowly, only to stop the moment he caught a glimpse of what lay inside.

An envelope with his name on it, in her handwriting, saying simply –  _Chris._

With shaking hands, he placed the box top aside and reached for the envelope. It was too heavy just to be a letter, he realized as he measured its weight in his hands. It could be a trap, he realized. Another moment where Wesker was merely using his feelings for Jill against him… but he couldn't find the energy to care.

So without a second thought, he opened the envelope – and from it, three things slid into his lap. A folded piece of paper, a set of dog tags, and a single lavender flower. It was tiny between his large fingers, and it trembled delicately in his grasp. Sure enough, it was the source of the smell that had drawn him to Jill's room. He gently set it aside and reached next for the dog tags. It took mere seconds to recognize them as his own. He hadn't realized they had even gone missing, but surely Wesker had removed them upon his capture. Why Jill had them, though, was beyond him.

He set them back in his lap and reached for the final item – a note. He felt his heart freeze. The paper was thin and it shook as he unfolded it to reveal Jill's uniquely scratchy writing.

_Don't give up. Remember what you're fighting for._

He rubbed his thumb across the indents of her words on the paper and wondered when she wrote them and how Wesker didn't know. He wondered if she had left it for him to find or if it was for herself. Had she taken his tags while Wesker wasn't looking? Had she hoped he'd find this?

Chris wanted to linger, but the looming worry that Wesker might "look" his way hastened him. He afforded himself just a moment to close his eyes and think of her before he returned the box to its place beneath Jill's bed. Then he tucked the flower and her letter back into their envelope and quickly slipped it into one of the many pockets of his fatigues. And finally, he wrapped the chain of his dog tags around his knuckles and shoved his hands into his pockets. He kept his mind carefully focused on the thoughts that had plagued him leading up to Jill's room, scattering self-depreciating thoughts over his mind as one might cover their tracks in the snow with a branch. It wasn't until he reached his room and checked Wesker's attention one last time before he stored his envelope away and laid himself out across his bed. With his fingers knuckle deep in the chain of his dog tags, he brought his hand above his heart and willed himself to sleep.

To fight for Wesker or against him… it was a question for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] a million years later, I finally have a chapter update and this bit of news - we are finally nearing the end. I'd say there's about a quarter of story-work left before the end. And hopefully another update in the very near future. Thank you all for your continued patience and support, and for tagging along on this ride for - literally - years.


	36. The Revelation

"Is he seriously asleep?" Someone asked.

"Well, he's not exactly young, now is he?" Another snorted.

"Chris? Chris, wake up! You're missing the party, old man!" A third said.

Chris grumbled and swatted at the hand that was pushing at his shoulder. When it became increasingly obvious that the hand would not stop, he begrudgingly opened his eyes. Even with his sunglasses on, he had to squint against the sunlight in his eyes as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Wha – what's wrong?" He asked, trying to rouse himself to alertness, blinking rapidly.

He heard laughter before the face in front of him finally came into focus – Piers, smiling as brightly as the sun that was shining on his face. Chris blinked at him owlishly as his young friend shook him by the shoulder again.

"Hey, calm down! Your sister didn't catch you sleeping, so you're safe. For now," Piers said with a chuckle, then punched him lightly as he took a seat in the cheap lawn chair beside the one Chris was occupying. "But you better stay awake. She'll be out here soon."

"Yea, Chris. She'd kill you if you missed it," a woman said, and Chris jerked his gaze across the ring of chairs to see Jake and Sherry curled together on a patio couch. Chris blinked, unable to process what was happening or connect the dots as Jake raised a beer to him in greeting and said, "Welcome back to the land of the living, old man."

Chris grunted, confused, as whatever conversation Sherry, Jake and Piers had been having continued. He looked around – he was outside somewhere. He didn't know where, but somehow he knew it was somewhere safe. The grass here was green; thick and cool where it touch his naked feet and tickled his ankles. They were sitting beneath the shade of a great oak tree, and ahead of him he could see a large, quaint house with a back porch and open double doors. People were bustling around inside, but he couldn't tell who or how many. There was a dog sitting in the grass to his left, gnawing contently on a bone, and all around him there were empty lawn chairs.

He jerked sharply when something cold and moist touched his shoulder, only to find Piers holding out a cold beer to him. Piers' large smile almost distracted from his mismatched eyes, but that large smile quickly fell as something about Chris' behavior obviously tipped him off. His tone was concerned when Chris finally took the beer from him.

"Hey, you okay? You getting old on me or something?"

"Wha – no, I just…"

"Of course he's getting old, the man's practically ancient," Jake said smoothly.

Sherry elbowed him and rolled her eyes.

"Hey you guys, you better not be getting into the beer without me!" Another familiar voice said, and Chris turned just in time to see Leon approaching them in nothing but a pair of well-worn jeans and a nice button down shirt. Chris blinked, then realized that he, Jake and Piers were similarly dressed. And Sherry was dressed in a flattering little sun dress that was obviously driving Jake mad if the way he kept brushing his fingers over the pale slope of her bare shoulder was anything to go by. It was altogether domestic in a way that he hadn't experienced in, hell, years – and he couldn't quite catch his bearings as Leon sat in an open lawn chair beside him.

"Hey, you okay?" Leon asked, eyes bright and playful as he got settled.

"Uh, yeah," Chris said, trying to mask his suspicious gaze as he tried to connect the dots. "Yeah, it's just been a long day."

"I imagine. If anything, your job has only gotten more complicated. I'm glad you were able to get away from the office. I know it means a lot to Claire," Leon said.

"Right? She texted me twice to make sure that Chris had left the office on time," Piers laughed.

"Sounds like Claire," Leon said.

"And you were able to get away from the DSO for a day?" Chris asked, trying to go with the flow.

"The DSO…?" Leon looked at him strangely and leaned forward in his chair to better regard Chris, suddenly serious, "Chris, I haven't worked for the DSO for two years… You sure you're okay?"

Chris opened his mouth to try and explain himself, only to be interrupted as movement on the porch caught Leon's attention.

"Claire, babe, let me help you with that!" He said and rushed over to the porch to where Claire stood, a large tray of sandwiches balanced in her hands. Chris watched her with wide eyes as he took in the healthy glow of her skin and the slight extra weight he had never noticed on her before. He wondered if it had really been so long that he wouldn't have noticed. She had her hair in a thick braid over one shoulder, and there were a few flecks of white in there that Chris couldn't help but wonder if he was imagining them or not. But now that he saw one on his sister, he saw them on Leon too – hiding in his temples beneath the fringe of his well kept hair.

"I'm fine, Leon," Claire said with some frustration, but not without a hint of amusement as the American agent – or ex-agent, Chris wasn't sure at this point – took the tray from her hands. She sighed and put her hands on her hips as she watched him place the heavy tray on the picnic table.

"You know what the doctor said, babe," Leon said, and Chris just held onto the armrests of his lawn chair and waited for the world to stop spinning as Leon guided a mildly offended Claire back into the house.

"Chris, are you sure you're doing okay?" Piers asked.

"Is Claire sick?" Chris asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

"Sick…? No, she's not sick anymore. That was a long time ago, Chris… She's in remission, you know that," Piers said, then perked up as two familiar figures joined them in the backyard. "Sheva! Josh! Over here!"

"Remission…?" Chris whispered before he turned to watch his two friends walk over. Both were done up in BSAA regulation formal dress attire.

 _This must be a dream_ , Chris thought as he exchanged handshakes and warm gestures with his friends. Wind blew warmly across the field of the backyard, sending the grass into an alluring dance all around them as Sheva told him all about the ceremony they barely managed to escape from on time.

"You should have heard the speech she gave the men, Chris," Josh said, a warm look in his eye as he smiled at Sheva. "You would have wept."

"I wouldn't go that far," Sheva chuckled.

"I believe it," Chris said, "You've always been a impassioned speaker. I'm sorry that I missed it."

"Don't be. This is important," she said, "Plus, you were the one who nominated me, Chris. That was more than enough."

Chris blinked, but managed to cover his confusion with a tip of his beer and a congratulatory smile.

"How come you never nominate me for things, boss?" Piers asked playfully.

"Because unlike Sheva, the only thing you're useful for is draining all the lights out of a room. Last I checked, they didn't have an award for that in the BSAA," Jake said with a familiar smirk that turned Chris cold to the bone. No one else saw the resemblance, however. No one else present would have ever seen that particular side of Wesker – playfully sarcastic after a long mission, enjoying a cold one with his team after Chris pestered him long enough to convince him to join. Probably smirking at Chris' expense, the asshole.

"Stop trying to convince everyone you hate me, Jake," Piers said with a smirk of his own, "You're not fooling anyone."

Jake snorted.

"Stop it, you two," a familiar voice said, making Chris' heart stop. "If Claire catches you arguing, I'm pretty sure she'll shoot first and ask questions later."

Chris looked over slowly, just as afraid that the dream would suddenly become a nightmare as he was that it wouldn't – that she'd be standing there perfect and beautiful and safe – crush him with the reality that this was all just a dream; too good to be true. And sure enough, there she was in a pair of denim skinny jeans and a loose, flowing tank that highlighted the twinkle in her eyes that he hadn't seen in years. Her hair was brunette again, and she had it clipped up into a flatteringly messy bunch at the back of her head. Everything about her sent his heart into a painful squeeze – from the cute little wisps of her hair that brushed at her neck to the bracelet she loved but never had a chance to wear until now because of missions. His breath stuttered into the beer he still had hovering at his lips.

"That good, huh?" Jill said with a sly, approving smirk. She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled, "You don't look half bad yourself."

"J-Jill?" He asked, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to tear his eyes away as she made her way to the chair Leon had vacated and took a seat beside him.

"Claire's about to come out and we'll get started. Are you excited?"

Chris didn't know how to answer. He just kept starting at her, unable to shake the surreal feeling that had crawled into his chest the moment he saw her.

"Stop it," she said, suddenly flustered by his staring. She punched him – harder than Piers had – and laughed. "You're freaking me out."

Chris felt a small, hesitant smile spread across his face. Her joy was infectious and before he knew it his face was split by a grin that matched hers. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. Her shirt was low enough that he could see the scars from Wesker's device, but they were old now – nearly gone. She caught his gaze and, mistaking the look for something else, she slapped his hand none too gently; but her amusement didn't change despite her mock reproachful look as she said "stop it" one more time, softer. Like she used to.

"Sorry, it's just…" Chris took a breath. "It feels like it's been forever."

"Since what?" She asked, her smile smaller now but no less warm.

"Since I saw you smile like that," he said, suddenly bold enough to take her pale hand in his. He couldn't understand how someone as powerful as Jill could have hands that felt so fragile and small. He rubbed his thumb across her skin and desperately wished that the smooth touch beneath his calloused thumb was real.

She blinked at him and her tone became serious as she ducked to catch his gaze. "Hey, look at me," and when he did, "I smile every day, because of you. With you. Every day."

He took in this version of Jill – healthy, free, loved – and he felt suddenly crushed under the revelation that this was a version of Jill he'd never see but in dreams. His heart faltered. His gaze dropped. He held her hand a little tighter and forced his smile back into place, lest the moment break.

"You could have smiled a minute ago and it'd still be too long," he said softly, so only she could hear. Her smile changed then. Fond, in love – but concerned. Aware of some nuance of himself that he couldn't mask.

"I didn't know you were such a romantic, Redfield," she said. She opened her mouth to say something else, no doubt to ask what brought this on, when Leon suddenly returned to the porch. He looked very excited about something, and Chris couldn't help but get intrigued as the conversations around him died.

"Alright everyone," he said, "Before Claire comes out, I just wanted to thank you all for coming. There's no one else we'd want to share this moment with, and it means a lot to both of us that you were able to take time from your schedules to share this moment with us. It means a lot to both of us that you all were able to take time from your schedules to come all the way out here."

"Of course we did," Jill said, as though Leon were being stupid. "I don't think any one of us would have missed it for anything."

"Still, thank you. And for all the frozen dinners and casseroles, too – I know we'll need them. Now, without further adieu, I present to you…" he said, turning as though revealing a prize – only to reveal Claire holding a small bundle of blankets in her arms. But by her expression, she wasn't just holding blankets. By her expression, by the sheer glow and wonder of her smile, Chris could have sworn she was holding every pure, honest thing left in this world in her arms. Maybe even the world itself. "My lovely wife and our beautiful baby girl."

For the second time, Chris felt his breath whisk away from him as he watched his baby sister walk down the stairs of the porch quite slowly and walk up to him.

"I figured you'd want to hold her first," she said as she adjusted the little bundle in her arms. Chris quickly sat down his beer – uncaring of how it tipped over and began to spill slowly over his feet and into the grass – and sat up straighter. Claire lowered the soft blankets into his arms and delicately positioned her daughter into Chris' waiting arms. The baby – _his niece_ – felt impossibly small in the large cradle of his arms, and he watched helplessly and in wonder as Claire gently moved the blanket from his niece's face and said, "Chris, this is your niece: Charlotte Ada Kennedy. Charlotte, this is your uncle."

The pink little face beneath the mountain of blankets blinked up at him owlishly, her eyes large and a familiar shade of blue. Chris let out a huge, amazed huff as an overwhelmed smile spread across his face. She blinked at him twice, then reached one tiny hand out from her blankets and gurgled at him.

He looked up at the joyous faces of his friends and family that surrounded him, then took in the proud and otherworldly look on Claire's face as she watched her brother and her daughter meet for the very first time. He adjusted the little bundle in his arms so that he could free one hand and lower a single finger – the same finger that had pulled a hundred triggers countless times – and press it gently into Charlotte's waiting grasp. He was floored by how strong her grip was, and he couldn't help but shake her tiny hand in a mock handshake as his smile spread ever further.

"Nice to meet you, Charlotte," he said, in awe of her like a man in awe of the sight at the top of the world. _And her eyes were so blue, they could have been the sky at the summit of Everest,_ he thought to himself. Charlotte, for her grandmother. Ada, for the woman that saved her father's life countless times. A life in commemoration to the lives they'd lost.

Charlotte looked at the finger she had grasped between her tiny digits, analyzing it with a serious little expression, before Chris saw the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life.

She smiled.

 _This,_ he thought, looking down at her beaming little face, _this is worth fighting for._

* * *

Chris was pulled from his dream violently as he found himself thrown from his bed and tossed across the room. He hit the far wall with enough force to leave a large, crackling dent in the wall before falling to the floor in a heap. He blinked rapidly, trying to remember where he was after such a vivid dream. His icy eyes flew from his rumpled bed to the seething, black clad man that stood beside it.

"Wesker?" He asked, suddenly as angry as he was confused. He pulled himself quickly to his feet.

"I didn't want it to be this way, Christopher," Wesker said as he approached, anger and frustration radiating off him both physically and mentally – drawing on their mental link and fatiguing Chris as he tried to separate his emotions from Wesker's. It wound him up, distracted him as Wesker got closer, teeth bared. "I wanted to gain your loyalty naturally, but it's becoming increasingly obvious that you need a little _help_."

Chris shook his head violently, trying to break free of all the overwhelming feelings that Wesker was barraging him with. "I'm not going back into that mask, Wesker. I'll die first."

"The mask was merely a temporary solution, Christopher," Wesker said, and the mental link between them suddenly went silent as Wesker stiffened. Chris felt his heart plummet as the BOW before him suddenly knelt down and ever so slowly picked up the dog tags that Chris had no doubt lost hold of during his flight across the room. Wesker raised them to eye level, and even through his sunglasses Chris could see the way his rage made his eyes glow. His leather gloves squealed loudly in protest as Wesker tightened his hold around the dog tags and redirected his glare at Chris.

"I saw your dream, Christopher," Wesker said as he lowered the tags to his side. "That world you saw… I want that world, too. Peace. Prosperity. Why can't you see that?"

"You're right, Wesker," Chris said, making Wesker jerk slightly at the omission. "You're right. We want the same thing… the only difference is: I'm not willing to pay the price that you're willing to pay. I can't justify living in that world if everyone doesn't have a shot to live in it."

"Everyone has the same odds of surviving the virus."

Chris huffed heavily through his nostrils and shook his head.

"...I can't be part of your solution if doesn't include everyone, Wesker. I was starting to think that maybe I could… And I admit, for a moment, I almost _wanted_ to be okay with it. But I'm not. I just can't." He thought of his friends and their smiling faces. He thought of what it'd be like, if one of them didn't make it to this new generation. _A new world_ at the low, low price of everyone that made _his world_ worth living in... He couldn't do it. He looked up at Wesker with resigned eyes. "I can't live in a world without them. I can't be part of the solution that kills them."

"So you would condemn every future generation to a life of over population," Wesker said, abbreviating each word with another step forward, "And disease, and suffering - just so that your tiny, fragile circle of _family_ ," he said with disgust, "That will no doubt die in meres _decades_ can live."

Chris swallowed and stiffened his jaw. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

He thought of his niece's hand wrapped around his finger and the way she smiled. It brought a bubble of determination back into his bones. Wesker must have seen it, too, because his scowl deepened and his expression turned stormy as he said very calmly, "That little girl was a dream, Christopher. Nothing more."

"No, she wasn't," Chris said, "There's thousands of little girls just like her. New to the world, being greeted by family and loved ones. Mothered by good people like my sister. Fathered by honorable people like Leon. They deserve to live in this world, too... This isn't just about my family. It's about every family." he said, then moved into a defensive stance as he prepared himself for the inevitable. "There's nothing you can say to convince me otherwise, Wesker. Not anymore."

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, and then Chris heard Wesker sigh haughtily through his nose. "Then you leave me no choice, Christopher," he said as he pushed back his coat and lowered into a stance. "Remember that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] So I can't even begin to explain to you how difficult it was to decide what side Chris would take - because the more I thought about it, the more I felt like Wesker was doing a real damn good job of convincing him about his solution. So my question is, how interested would people be in reading a spin off (after this is done) of what it might have been like had Chris decided to join "Wesker's solution"?
> 
> Also, shit's about to get real.


	37. A New World

Chapter 37: A New World

Chris thought that on some level, they'd be on even ground. He was wrong – God, was he wrong. He had landed a few hits, sure. A few _good_ hits, too. But that didn't matter. For every kidney shot he managed to sneak in, Wesker was already behind him, nailing him with two. Blood poured from his nose, and already he could feel his body working to heal the injury. Regardless, he couldn't breathe; breath whistling weakly through flared nostrils as he tried to anticipate Wesker's next move.

He should have known Wesker didn't have one final, punishing move in mind. No, that'd be too simple. Instead, he was winding Chris up and burning him out. Every injury healed was another smidge of air let out of his tires, wearing him down one sucker punch at a time.

So Chris just worked that much harder. A hard right to Wesker's cheek – fast, faster than he's managed to move yet – managed to connect with a force that guaranteed splintered bone. It knocked Wesker back, over the counter and across the other side of the kitchen. In an endurance game, Chris didn't have a chance. His body was too young, too new to the virus to be able to endure copious amounts of healing over a long period of time.

But when it came to _power_ – weight lifting paid off for something, it seemed. Wesker was lithe and firm in his abilities as a superhuman, but when it came to brute strength, Chris had him beat; and it was nice to finally have a leg up on Wesker on something.

Chris rounded the counter quickly, not bothering with grace as he scrabbled to deliver another blow to the man while he was down. He knelt down over Wesker, one fist raised – only to receive two boots to the gut and a free ride into the far wall of the kitchen. The blow was so fierce, he found himself a good few inches in the cement bricks that made up the walls. His body screamed in despair, brick dust and cement crumbling around him – turning in pale and dirty.

He groaned, momentarily lost; and while it only lasted for a second, it was all Wesker needed to take the upper hand. Chris opened his eyes to find Wesker right in front of him. He struggled to break free of the wall only to have a large, firm hand press in at his sternum and force him back.

"What the -?" Chris struggled, then glared up at Wesker. "You done fighting? Getting too close for comfort?" He sneered.

"Enough, Christopher," Wesker said, not even smirking at the way Chris weakly pressed back against his hand in exhaustion. "Enough."

"…What –"

And then there was a hand at his face, obscuring first his lower jaw and then, as Chris stared at Wesker with wide, confused eyes – his vision as well. Long fingers spread out to span the edges of his face, then _pressed_ , forcing Chris against the wall. He breathed weakly, air whistling loudly in the silence as Chris struggled to be free – waiting for Wesker to make sense.

And then it started.

He screamed, nails breaking against the walls as he clawed wildly in panic.

* * *

"He's pretty active tonight, huh?" Sherry said as she entered the room, gesturing lightly in apology when her sudden entrance accidently startled Piers. She walked over to him, one slim hand gently pressing a warm cup of coffee into his. Piers looked tired – exhausted in a way that added yet another reason to Sherry's growing list of things to feel guilty about. It should be her in that chair, staying up at all hours of the night. It should be her that comforted Jake. It should be her.

But it's not.

She tried to ignore the dark circles that were growing beneath Piers' eyes despite even his enhanced state of health. She looked away when his eyes became hooded as he sipped his drink and whispered, "Thank you."

"Of course," she said, and stood beside him as she looked at the other occupant in the room. Jake looked better – almost disturbingly better. He'd gained most of the weight back that he had lost, and his skin glowed with a healthy tinge that he had been lacking since the incident. She was grateful – really. She was also jealous – jealous that Piers' presence had such an effect on him, and that made her feel even worse.

"You're right though," Piers said, "He is pretty active tonight," and gestured to Jake as he stirred yet again in his sleep. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes were rolling fretfully. Atop his sheets, his fingers twitched minutely. By all appearances, he reminded Sherry of a dog her family once owned before… well, before everything. A golden retriever – Chance. He used to run in his sleep. And bark, whine, growl, paw – you name it.

 _Dreaming_ , her mother would say to her. _Chance must be chasing something in his dreams._

"What do you think he's dreaming about?" She asked softly.

Piers took a long sip from his cup, sighed and then said, "Who knows… hopefully something better than this."

She nodded, then quietly pulled up a chair beside Piers and settled in to keep them company.

"Yea… Hopefully."

* * *

Jake felt like he had been here before. In his bones, it felt true. He knew these hallways. He had spent months in these hallways. He knew the layout by heart. The pale, clinical white of the walls were no stranger to him. The tile played a familiar tune beneath his boots. He knew this place.

He has never been to this place.

But in dreams, these things don't stand out. He was aware that he had and had not been here before, but neither mattered. He walked throughout the complex regardless because anything was better than the vast, black nothingness he had come from. It had been so dark, with nothing there but the shadow of a person at the very edge of his vision – always just out of sight, but always there. He was happy to be gone from that place. He'd take creepy death lab over that any day.

So he wandered without aim, because hell – dreams gotta end sometime, right?

He appreciated it for its simplicity. It was better than his flashbacks to his past mercenary battles, and a hell of a lot better than his nightmares. Visions of his battle with Ushtanak, only different. Versions of a life where they didn't win, where Sherry was crushed beneath the heavy ball and chain of Ushtanak's attacks, where Jake himself fell into the lava and burned away… Yeah, he'd take boring old hallways any day.

Only… it didn't feel quite as simple as just wandering. He knew this place, but not where he was going – only that he _was_ going somewhere. Idle minutes passed. He wondered where Sherry was and if she were okay. He tried to remember the last time he saw her, but the more he thought about it – _ghouls everywhere, clawing at him, a black shadow stalking them, fighting, leaving her behind, gunshots, Piers and wild familiar blue eyes, an apology and a flash –_ he winced and rubbed at his temples. Something whispered soothingly in his head not to worry about it.

So he didn't.

The voice was different from the black place, though… He couldn't quite pin why, only that it was. It spoke far more freely than the shadow from the black place, and now that he could hear it, he couldn't seem to shut it off.

' _We've been waiting for you,'_ it said, as though from the mouth of an old friend. ' _Follow me,'_ it said, and so he did.

He glanced into the rooms from time to time; he didn't rush. He passed labs and living quarters. A small room that appeared to be something like a rec room. A lot of labs. _A lot of labs._ He wondered how long he'd be stuck here as he finished peeking through yet another lab, only to turn the corner and stop dead in his tracks.

Blood.

There was blood on the wall ahead of him – a messy, wet hand print that scrabbled across the wall wildly. His own blood seemed to draw still in his veins, and everything around him suddenly felt cold and sharp like static. He'd seen plenty of blood before, but not like this. This was different somehow – and drawing yet another blank only added frustration to the uneasy pit growing rapidly in his stomach.

He took a step forward to better analyze the mess only for his boot to suddenly land on something hard, unyielding and uneven. It screeched between his foot and the tile beneath it – scratching oddly, like beads. He lifted his foot and blinked. Dog tags…

He knelt down to pick them up. His fingers grazed across them and –

_A hand spreading across his face again – and suddenly_ **he** _was there, so deep inside his mind he couldn't push_ **him** _out. There was screaming, and dully he realized it was himself, his throat on fire as he howled beneath_ **him** _._

_The feeling of memories and thoughts being shredded away and put back in all the wrong places._

_"No, no, no," he shoved_ **him** _away but it was too late. He staggered into the far wall for purchase and took off. He had to get away._

_Blood smeared against the wall._

_Oh God, he wasn't going to make it._

_Hands at his ankles –_

Jake jerked back so violently he landed on his ass, chest heaving as he tried to process what he had just felt. God, they were so afraid. His own heart was slamming wildly in his chest, his breath tight in his lungs. He tried to breathe the terror away, but his eyes still felt wide in his skull – his muscles stiff with tension.

Who owned these tags? Who was he running from? What the fuck happened?

His hand ached from grasping the tags so tightly. In his terror, he had crushed them tight into his hand. Now, uncurling his hand, he froze when he read the words.

**Chris Redfield.**

And then someone screamed – voice so audibly ragged that it made Jake want to run. A small voice in the back of his head said to snap out of it. He was a mercenary. He'd seen worse, _done_ worse. This was nothing. But the other voice, the voice from the shadows – _it babbled so pleadingly to him._

_Please run, please run, pleaserunpleaserunplea-help, oh god, please help me._

* * *

Chris' hands and boots scrabbled loudly, wetly against the bloody tile as he rushed to regain his footing. His shoulder slammed into the far wall of the hallway instead, but he didn't linger long. With one wide eyed glance over his shoulder, he vaulted himself off the wall and kept running. His heart was hammering in his chest, thumping so violently he thought it might explode. After everything he'd been through – getting infected, the mansion, the mask… After everything, he thought he understood fear.

But those experiences were not _fear_ , not as he knew it now.

Fear kept his mind open like floodgates he couldn't close, barring him from blocking Wesker out. Fear kept him running down the hallways like an abused animal even though he knew there was nowhere to go. Fear kept him moving, because he thought Wesker had taken everything from him. He thought he had nothing left to lose. He was wrong. He was so wrong.

 _No, no, no, no_ , he thought, his voice screaming in his head as he felt Wesker prying into his vision once again. This was worse than the mask. Worse than being infected and forced into this new existence against his will.

"You can't run from me, Christopher," Wesker said, his boots calling out louder than thunder in the barren hallways.

"Stop it, stop it, _stop it_ ," Chris whispered weakly, hoarsely as he clawed at his eyes, fighting against the pressure of Wesker's intrusion into his mind. In his momentary blindness, he stumbled. He clipped his shoulder against the corner of the hallway, sending him tumbling across the floor. In his panic, he clawed at the floor to stop himself and regain his bearings, but his blood slick knuckles and fingers just squeaked uselessly against the tile – red, scrawling trails left in their wake.

His head knocked harshly against a parallel wall, his vision spinning as he lay limply on the floor. 'Get up, Chris, get the _fuck up!'_

Another barrage, stronger than the last one – coming faster and faster like labor pains. Chris twisted onto his back helplessly and arched up against the pain, driving his shoulder blades and heels into the floor – screaming until veins pushed painfully against the thin skin of throat. It felt like fire behind his eyeballs, like bleach inside his skull – burning, burning, _burning everything away._

He reached out to the precious things he was losing – mentally or physically, he couldn't tell. Sheva grasping his hand, telling him she wouldn't leave him behind. _Partners? Partners._ Finn smiling, excited to take advice from his hero. _Thanks, Captain! I won't let you down!_ Leon on a rare night out, smiling at him from over his beer. _You got one hell of a sister, Redfield._ Piers telling him to go home once again, refusing to leave until Chris did. _Shouldn't leave before the CO, even if he is a crazy workaholic bastard._ A wry grin.

Fading, fuzzy, disappearing like sand between his fingers. He couldn't remember who he lost this time… Only that he lost them.

The wave had passed.

His heart shuddered weakly in his chest, overwhelmed and frustrated and so fucking sick. He brought trembling fingers up to his face and _clawed_ , red welts coming and going in mere seconds as he dragged angry nails down and struggled to breathe. Each wheeze came out harsher, wetter, more panicked than the last until finally his pressed his thumbs into his eyes, pulled at his hair and screamed.

Distantly, he heard the footsteps coming. Red hot tears burned in the places where crow's feet once dug into his skin. Slowly, he dropped his hand from his face and turned to look at the man responsible standing a few feet from him.

He expected a smug grin, a cruel sneer, a snide remark. Instead, Wesker looked down on him with nothing in his eyes but observance.

Chris licked the dried blooded from his once torn lip – no doubt bitten threw a dozen times now – and wheezed…

"Why won't you just let me die?"

Wesker stared at him for a long time, watching the man he had created shatter on the floor before he slowly stooped himself down and kneeled beside him.

"Because, Christopher," Wesker said, his voice gentle – neither kind nor biting. "You are proof of the impossible."

Wesker raised one hand out to him, his glove gone and his fingers pale and reaching. With the last of his strength, Chris caught his hand at the wrist and stopped him.

Wesker looked at him expectantly.

"Please…" Chris said, and he couldn't find the strength to hate himself for pleading. "Please don't take her."

A hand descended.

"It'll all be over soon, Christopher," Wesker said as a cool hand obscured Chris' wide, frightened eyes.  
"Then you'll be ready for your role in our new world."

Chris' chest heaved in the throes of hyperventilation as his world turned black once more. And in the darkness stood his sister, framed in a halo of light. She turned to him there, in the shadows, and upon seeing him she smiled as though seeing him for the first time in ages. She reached out to him, eyes warm and full of home.

"Claire!" Chris screamed and ran for her, hoping that if he could just reach her first, she'd be spared. That Wesker would leave him just this one thing. He couldn't remember what he had lost, but he knew what he could lose. He reached for her, eyes closed in his desperation – too afraid to watch her hand turned to dust like…who? He couldn't remember the face; only that it hurt to watch them go.

But her hand didn't slip away, nor did her memory. He could feel her slender fingers in his hand, fingers tightening in response to his terrified grip.

"Chris. Look at me," she said. And he did, a weak, hopeful smile on his lips that quickly bled away.

They were in a hospital room. Her hand was suddenly frail in his, pale and trembling between his fingers. Her veins were dark against her skin, and there were far too many needle marks along her arms. She looked tiny in that hospital bed – engulfed by blankets. She needed pillows to sit up. She was wearing the blue wrap today. It hid her baldness the best, she always said with a smile. She didn't say it today.

"Please don't go," Chris said. "Please."

Claire looked up at him with a pale, watery smile. "I'm so proud of you."

He tried to speak, but couldn't get past the sudden burn in his throat. He dipped his head down so she wouldn't see how scared he was. They were so young. They were supposed to have more time. How was this happening? Why didn't anyone have a cure? Claire didn't deserve this. How could she be dying? How could her own body be killing her? She wasn't even done with college yet… How…?

He just didn't understand.

He rubbed her thin skin beneath his thumb to ground himself as she reached up with her free hand to pull him closer. She wasn't as warm as she used to be, he realized as he hugged her. He buried his face into her hair and tried to memorize the smell of her. They told them they'd have years. They told them…

"Please," he whispered.

"It's going to be okay," she said. She sounded tired. "Chris, I need you to promise me something."

"Anything," he said, pulling away to look at her milky eyes.

"Promise me," she said, suddenly winded. "Promise me…" Her breath whistled around the nasal cannula. "Promise me you won't let this stop you."

"Claire."

"Promise me," she demanded the way only the dying could – weakly, selfishly and with abandon. "Promise me you'll take that job in the city. You'll find a pretty girl and earn medals. Be a hero, have a big family, retire… Maybe name your daughter Claire," she joked.

Chris' laugh came out more like a wet gasp between his clenched teeth and forced smile.

"I don't..."

"Don't lock yourself away, Chris," she said, pressing her trembling hand from his face to his heart. "Promise me… you'll keep living."

"…I promise…"

He was there when it happened. He held her hand as she slipped away. He felt it the moment she became just a body between his fingers. As though someone had flipped a switch, she was gone. Her monitor blared a long, sullen note. In the corner of his eye, he could see nurses scrambling in the hallway. Not that it mattered – not with the DNR signed and filed away.

"Claire?" he whimpered, suddenly feeling small in the cold, empty room. "Claire?"

A large hand at his shoulder, warm and firm and solid.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Christopher. I understand if you'd like to take some… time, before you give us your answer about the position," Wesker said as he rounded Chris – and as he passed, the scenery changed. He watched the man as he took a seat behind the desk in his office. He was clad in STARS blues – a pair of familiar shades in front of him and folded neatly. Chris knew he wasn't exactly the picture of emotional turmoil – not with his back rigid and his shoulders straight, his face a solid mask of composure. Emotional turmoil, no. But he was cold. Cold despite the summer sun and record setting heat outside. Cold so far down, he could feel it in his gut as he looked at Wesker and said, "If it's all the same to you, sir, I can tell you now. I'll take it."

He watched the man quirk a brow that slowly melted into a miniscule but approving smile.

"I think we'll get along quite nicely, Mr. Redfield," Wesker said, one hand extended.

Chris shook it.

"I think so, too."

His hand was firm, Chris thought, and suddenly he wasn't shaking his hand. He was pulling Wesker up from the ground after the man had taken a knee to readjust his equipment.

"What?" Wesker asked. Chris blinked and shook his head, trying to wake himself up. They'd be in the mansion for several hours now, and he was running on fumes. He could've sworn he had been somewhere else…

"I said, I think so, too," he said, thrusting his chin toward the door. "I think this is it."

Wesker looked at the door and sniffed disdainfully.

"You ready to confront her, Redfield?" Wesker asked, eyeing Chris with careful calculation.

A pang of anger and heartache and self-depreciation fluttered in his chest. How had he not known Jill was a traitor? How could she have done this to them? Setting up this mission for some unknown agency – plotting their deaths, testing their abilities, testing what outbreak would be like… And Chris had asked her out, too. God, how did he not see it sooner.

"Yea," he growled, chambering another round into his shotgun. "I'm ready."

Moments of history flickered in fast forward. Fighting Jill, watching her dip away with the Mansion on self destruct and a monster on the loose – but not before infecting Wesker with something on her way out. Rushing to the hospital, going through all kinds of military labs and testing and medical facilities trying to get Wesker back on his feet. Building the BSAA, hunting Jill down to Africa at Wesker's side. Leading a new group of recruits. Losing them. Getting drunk in some back ally until Wesker dragged him back. Leading another team to China. Finding out Piers was working for Jill and Ada all along. Meeting Wesker's son, who was then brainwashed and abducted by Birkin's daughter. Finding out that Wesker's DNA could be used to cure cancers, diseases, illness – God, if only they had known while Claire was still alive... To prevent future bioterrorism breakouts and prevent infection. To create a new mankind, stronger – better – impervious to any new virus Jill and her organization could come up with next. No more Umbrella. No more Tricell or any other knockoff pharmacy from hell.

They found a way to access Jake, to use his DNA to build a genetic bridge and make the human body more receptive to the virus. They had passed testing just as Jill began ramping up on attacks again. And just when they thought they'd done it – Ada tried to assassinate Wesker. Chris took the bullet, but the lab – God, they lost everything.

And now, with the promise of more attacks – worse and more violent than ever – they had only one choice. Launch now or lose humanity forever.

Chris would be damned if he lost now. Not after everything he'd been through.

He would see the dawn of a better world. Even if it killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N] I didn't forget about this, I swear! Work has been a killer - videos and videos and more videos. BUT FINALLY I have updated. Hopefully you all find it worth the wait. As always, bless you for continuing to read this after literal fucking YEARS. Bless you. Bless your cow. Bless your lucky cricket.


	38. Assaulted

When Jake found the source of the voice in his head, it was just in time to watch as Chris grew still beneath the weight of the man that straddled him. Gently, the man lowered Chris’ head to the ground and rose, their back still to Jake. All he could see was the broad expanse of the man’s leather clad shoulders and a slick mat of blond hair – not one hair out of place. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he didn’t need to. _Kin_ , his blood sang. _Alpha of my Alpha._

“Wesker,” Jake said.

 _Dad_ , hung heavily in the space between them.

“You came,” Wesker said, turning slowly to address his son. His tone was calm, cold and intellectual. Nothing like Jake had expected, and yet, everything like he knew it would be. “Chris has become stronger than I thought if he was able to draw you here. Excellent.”

Jake wrinkled his nose, confused by Wesker’s nonsense. He brushed the topic aside with his hand and took a step forward.

“What did you do to him?”

“I set him free.”

Jake’s gaze flickered down to where the man lay on the ground, fingers twitching fitfully as he stared blankly into the ceiling – blue eyes glowing like arctic glaciers. Jake sneered.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“I can set you free, too,” Wesker said, extending one hand out slowly, theatrically, to his son. “If you’d only let me.”

Jake took a step back, disgust written plainly on his face.

“Go fuck yourself.”

A muscle in Wesker’s jaw twitched, and Jake smirked. Good.

“Naw, really,” Jake snarled, hands out. “How’d you think that was going to go? I’d just run into your arms? Did you think I’ve been _waiting_ for this moment? To be reunited? Finally accepted? **Fuck you**. I stopped waiting years ago. I stopped caring _years ago._ I looked forward to this, yeah - I wanted to meet you. To track you down... So I could put a face to the name that my mother always chanted in her fever dreams. The man that left us with medical bills and debt and death. She loved you and you _left_ her. And here you think that I’d want to jump in line for whatever the fuck you just did to him?  Eager to be your faithful son? You’re fucking crazier than everyone’s been telling me.”

After a long pause, Wesker straightened and sniffed disdainfully.

“A pity,” he said, rolling his head on his neck – joints cracking eerily. “And here I thought we were going to have a happy family reunion.”

And before Jake could even mutter the words ‘ _fuck your family reunion_ ’, Wesker was streaking across the hall in a stream of black smoke. A hand congealed at his throat and _squeezed_ , and suddenly Jake found himself off his feet. He scrabbled to grab hold of the wrist that held him, but his hands just passed through the man like a specter. His vision darkened at the edges, his throat burning, and all the while his blood chanted a steady thrumming of guilt and disappointment for his actions. His mind told him no, that was stupid. His heart told him he was in the right.

But his blood, oh his blood – how it ached to be accepted.

Jake cried out.

“Don’t worry, my boy,” Wesker said, but his words were anything but loving – cold and dripping with disgust as he eyed the creature in his grasp. “We can start again.”

Images flashed across his mind suddenly, vicious and cruel and so real he felt his heart shutter. Confusing messages that tore through his memories, leaving small tattered holes in their wake, fluttering weakly as he tried to pull them shut again. Flashes of Piers betraying them. Ada and Jill tying him down at that facility and leaving him to the bombs. And Sherry, _his Sherry_ , aiming the barrel of a gun right up to his head – her eyes cold and dead to him.

Jake struggled suddenly, his legs kicking out.

“No!”

“Yes, dear boy,” Wesker purred and squeezed tighter, the images more vivid. Chris pulling him through the hallways and away from their betrayers. Changing him to save him. Bringing him here, to Wesker. To their Alpha. To their King. Their Savoir. Their God. "And let's be clear,  _son_. I didn't leave you. Your darling  _mother_ ," he spat, "Never told me.  _She_ left.  _She_ is the reason for your loneliness and your pain and the debt that engulfed your tiny, fragile lives until the day that finally she succumbed to her weak and useless body. Food for thought."

And then the images changed – moving in reverse somehow. No longer being implanted, but taken. Images of the people who were with him, the information they said around him, what little he knew of his location – all observations during his own catatonic state, but evidently enough. Jake struggled to cut the thread, and with a massive explosion of mental energy, he managed it – barely.

**“NO!”**

And the images stopped. But it was enough, oh, it was enough. Jake’s body felt weak and frail where it hung heavily in Wesker’s grasp, and all the while, the man just grinned – knowing. The damage had been done. Was this what Wesker had done to Chris? Jake's eyes slid to the man; catatonic and unblinking. No… whatever he had done to Chris had been worse, far worse. This was just a taste. A promise of what the monster would take from him, too.

“I’ll see you soon, dear boy,” Wesker said. “Very soon.”

Wesker raised his other hand, poised to strike. Jake’s lashes fluttered weakly against his draining cheeks. And then Wesker struck.

Jake flew forward from bed with a gasp that caught in his throat. Tubes in his arms. Wailing machines at his sides, blinking and shrieking. His hands scrabbled at the the needle in the top of his hand and the sticky nodes on his chest. 

Someone was at his bedside was shouting – hands at his wrists, trying to stop him. But he needed to breathe. He needed the tubes gone, gone, _gone._  He coughed, his eyes stinging, and then he howled. His hands scrabbled first to his chest – whole where he was sure a gaping maw should be – and then to his head, where the pounding threatening to swallow him whole.

“Jake?” A voice said, soothing and familiar. With wide eyes, he sought it out between the fingers that were splayed across his face. “Jake!”

Piers.

The BSAA Agent reached for him, and despite himself, Jake flinched – his vision suddenly absorbed once more with the vision of Wesker raising his hand to strike, grinning in the low light. By the fake images the man had barraged him with. Fake, but oh so real. Piers backed off immediately, then moved back in slowly, as if appeasing a spooked dog.

“It’s me,” the man said, “Piers. Remember me? We hate each other? I saved your life, you saved mine? Ringing any bells?”

Jake couldn’t fathom the man’s words, but his tone he knew. Soothing and familiar and distinctly not his father’s whispering in his head. He watched Piers through his fingers as slowly, his body relaxed.

“That’s it,” Piers said, continuing his low, even talking. “You’re in a BSAA facility. You’ve been… hell, you’ve been out of it for days. But you’re fine. You’re safe.”

Fine… Safe… No one was safe.

Jake licked his lips and when he spoke, it was a coarse hush of sound.

Piers moved away from him quickly, his own hands trembling, and it was only then that Jake noticed the state the man was in – pale and trembling and hollow. How long had he been waiting here at Jake’s bedside? Had he not slept? Eaten? He looked like shit.

And that was exactly the first thing out of his mouth once he drank from the glass of water Piers passed him.

“Gee, thanks,” Piers said, his face falling from excited puppy to the sour face he normally adopted when with Jake. “Asshole.”

And that more than anything made Jake feel at ease, and all the tension from his fever dream passed from him all at once. He sagged back into his bed, simultaneously feeling exhausted and yet, never better in his life. He felt strong. Inhuman. Alive. Tainted. Some echoed in his blood, strange and alien.

The door opened to his room to reveal a man in a wheelchair with a shock of shaggy brown hair and oddly kind, yet tired eyes. Jake watched him warily.

“I heard the alarms and came as quickly as I could,” he said, rolling up to Jake’s bedside. When he reached for Jake’s wrist, Jake jerked it away – his teeth bared before he could even register what he was doing.

“Hey!” Piers snapped at Jake.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Apologies,” the man said, his kindness still firmly in place. His accent thick. Familiar. “My name is Alexander Kozachenko. You can call me Buddy. I’ve been monitoring you these past few days with Special Agent Nivan’s help. You’ve been out for some time. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

“Yeah, well, we've got bigger problems,” Jake said, hating the fact that his confidence was lost to the hazy wheeze of his voice. He tried to clear it, but it didn’t help. As if he actually _had_ been strangled. “Where’s Leon?”

Piers frowned.

“What’s going on, Jake?”

“I saw your captain, sparks,” Jake said finally, his eyes falling to Piers.

“Chris? What do you mean you saw him? Is he alright?” He asked, rushing forward to grab the bars around Jake’s bed.

Jake grimaced. He wasn’t fond of Piers – but that didn’t mean he took pleasure in his pain, either. He shook his head, and despite himself, his heart fell a bit when he saw Piers deflate.

“Go get Leon,” Jake finally said. “It’s important.”

“Let me,” Buddy said, one hand at Piers’ forearm to stop him. “We don’t know what will happen if you leave, even if he’s awake now. Best you stay, just in case.”

And then Buddy was gone, surprisingly spry in his chair. Silence hung heavy in the air as Jake looked at Piers, taking the man in. He looked thinner than he remembered. Tired.

 _Weak_ , his father’s voice whispered. He shook it away.

“Where’s Sherry?” He asked, then, “Is she… Is she okay?”

There was an unsettling moment where Jake feared that Piers would not tell him, but then something in the man’s face gentled and he said, “She’s fine. She’s here.”

But she wasn’t here _now_ , and Jake couldn’t help but feel stung.

“Jake,” Piers said, and it sounded like the words were taking a lot from the man – exhausting him. “Chris, is he… is he still there?”

“With Wesker? Yes.”

“No, I mean is he…still _in_ there? Somewhere?”

Jake stiffened, thinking of how Chris’ feet had scrabbled against the tile beneath Wesker’s weight. His screams, and how he had begged. His blank eyes, staring. Silent. Still.

“…I don’t know.”

It was the smallest mercy he could give, and it wasn’t enough. His words did nothing to hide the truth. Piers turned away from him, and Jake let him. It was a fucked up world they lived in.

Men like Chris Redfield shouldn’t die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you - thank you - THANK YOU for your constant patience and continued readership and support. You people are my favorite people. I promise I will finish this. Slowly, but surely. I promise.


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